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11 ? \ 


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TO OUR READERS: 


Our new eosy-to-read space-saving type conserves paper In conformity 
with government rationing — and there Is NO REDUCTION in reading matter. 


Vol.il, No. 3 CONTENTS 


Winter, 1945 



Complete Scieistiffiction Novel 

1R#N MEN 

By 

loomis 

Fleeing from the Cruel Masters of a Dying Earth, 
Len Niles, Champion of a Vanishing Race, Sails a 
Space-Ship into the Void on a Strange Quest for a 
New Planet! II 


fiJmfiSELEail SSeert Storees 

DARK COMMAND Frank Belknap Long 66 

Patrol Commander Greg Temple Flings a Challenge at Witchcraft 

THE RADIATION OF THE CHINESE VEGETABLE C. Sterling Gleason 80 

A Hall of Fame Classic Reprinted by Popular Demand 

SKYROVER ' : Leslie Northern 87 

, Miko Vran and Rover Tackle a Touchy Situation on Jupiter 

THE COSMIC CHAIN Ford Smith 96 

John Blakely Solves the Enigma of the Expanding Universe - 

Special Features 

THE ETHER VIBRATES Announcements and Letters 6 

THRILLS IN SCIENCE Oscar J. Friend 75 

THIS STARTLING WAR News from the Science Front 95 

REVIEW OF FAN PUBLICATIONS Sergeant Saturn 101 

MEET THE AUTHOR..: Noel Loomis 112 

Cover Painting by Earle Bergey — illustrating "Iron Men" 



STARTLING STORIES, published quarterly by Better Publications, Inc., N. L. Pines, President, at 4600 Diverse? 
Ave., Chicago 39, Hi. Editorial and executive offices, 10 East 40th St., New York 18, N. Y. Entered as second class matter 
September 29, 1938, at the post office at Chicago, Illinois, under the act of March 3, 1879. Copyright, 1944, by Better Pub- 
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with this magazine please include your postal zone number. If any. Manuscripts will not be returned unless accompanied by 
self-addressed stamped envelope and are submitted at the auhor's risk. Names of all characters used in stories and' 
semi-fiction articles arc fictitious. If the name of a living person or existing institution is used, it is a coincidence. 


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A Department Where Readers, Writers and Sergeant Saturn Get Together 


HE triple-super atomic power was going 
full blast, and we were just about to turn 
on the juice for the takeoff when the 
-space mailman gave his double ring at the 
fore-portal, and we managed to stick one claw 
through and come up with a last-minute letter 
from one J. Wasso, who writes on Bugg House 
stationery from Pen Argyl, Pennsylvania, back 
on bad old terra infirma. 

Since his letter happens to fit directly into 
the plans of the old Sarge'for the next tissue 
of STARTLING STORIES, we’re ignoring 
some of the supposed humor around the mar- 
gins of the paper and giving you the gist of the 
contents in a hurry. Says Wasso: 

Anent your .avowed Intention of occasionally pub- 
lishing Captain Future novels in STARTLING 
STORIES, I, would like to say.that since you already 
had .a Future novel scheduled before the suspension 
of, CAPTAIN FUTURE, entitled “Red Sun of Dan- 
ger.” it shouldn’t be difficult to Include it soon in an 
early issue of STARTLING STORIES. 

' I miss the .one and only matchless, unequaled, 
Inimitable, unparalleled,' peerless, invaluable." excel- 
lent and priceless Captain Future ! Bring him back 
and' lfet me out of this, Bugg House! . 

; Well,’ we’re doing that very thing, Wasso, 
Jr. Our very next issue will see Curt New- 
ton,. Grag, the Brain, Otho, Joan Randall and 
all the gang back in a Brett Sterling special 
jaunt through space — yes, it’s THE RED SUN 
OF DANGER. 

This is one of the best of all the Captain 
Future yarns, with the Futuremen banding to- 
gether to break a brutal monopoly on a dis- 
tant planet that threatens the extinction of 
Earth itself. It is right on the beam all the 
way down to the last stirring climax. 

So Captain Future hasn’t gone to distant 
galaxies for the duration. He will be an oc- 
casional visitor to the good ship STARTLING 
STORIES, where he will appear from time to 
time to keep the appetites of Wasso, Jr., and 
his other ardent fans whetted. 

Next issue will also feature, in addition to 
the long novel, a number of unusual short 
stories, a Hall of Fame Classic and all our 
regular features. So be on hand when the next 
issue appears! 

Now for a personal gripe from the old 
Sarge. Some sub-sophomoronic would-be ca- 
ricaturist from Pine Bluff, Arkansas, named 
Arthur McCourt, has had the unmitigated gall 
to come up with another drawing entitled 
“Sergeant Saturn.” It is reproduced on this 
page. 

At that, he has been gentle with the old 
Sarge compared to what Jack Wiedenbeck did 
to us in the Fall Issue in a drawing mistak- 


enly attributed, to E. E. Evans. It is a far 
less libellous presentation in a very nifty 
uniform indeed, but, oh, brother, how'Al Mc- 
Court does underrate our gullet capacity. 

That thing we are holding in our hand looks 
a lot more like a Venusian perfume bottle for 



a Mercurian muskmaiden than anything fit for 
the old Sarge to drink. No wonder our tongue 
is hanging out a foot at such a disappointing 
prospect. We’ll forgive the cross eyes and 
the cigarlike nose, but a Plutonian giant Onion 
to McCourt for the sissy-sized bottle! 

So we’re off in a cloud of asterisk dust, 
heading for the far end of the universe. After 
some of the billets doux that have come 
flying at us out of the blue, we can’t get there 
fast or far enough. But let’s face the music 
now. 



Bergey takes another beating, but Brackett 
fares better in the first letter out of the bag. 

A THREAT AND A PROMISE 

By Benson Perry 

Dear Sarge : Well ! Well ! I have just gotten the 
fall ish of good old STARTLING STORIES. Very 
(Continued on page 8) 






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THE ETHER VIBRATES 

(Continued from page 6) 

interesting. Very. .1 refer of -course to the Bergey 
cover. You know it seems queer to read THE 
ETHER VIBRATES and hear them complaining 
about the last cover when you realize this is worse 
still. 

Take for instance the perennial BEMs that are we 
assume the “black anthropoids”. Now, that’s a 
queer thing. Instead of black one of them is red, 
another is brown and the third Is half of each. Come, 
come Bergey. Bet’s not be so literal. 

When Miss Brackett says anthropoid she probably 
hoped the artist wouldn’t be so literal as to draw 
an ape. Don’t you think, Sarge (maybe I had better 
end the sentence here) that on different planets, 
animals have SLIGHT variations? Hmmmm? 

Now for “Shadow Over Mars.” ft seems in two 
letters of mine that were published I attacked Leigh 
Brackett ! s work and In both cases you hoped that I 
might change my mind; Well, I. did, and I’ll tell 
you why.' Leigh has an excellent literary style and 
when she lays off fantasy and tries STF we get 
doggone good stuff. 

Your Hall, of Fame was quite good but not a 
classic. Haye you reprinted THE BLACK FLAME? 
Seems as though you. have. Anyway do It now if 
it hasn’t already been accomplished. 

Confidentially, the shorts were terrible. The less 
comment the better. 

Your review of the ’ztnes always interests the 
“fen” but why not make the reviews longer? Some- 
time I’ll send in my -horrible mag named UNBE- 
LIEVABLE GHASTLY FANTASIES which is a 
satire of everything. Or maybe CAPTAIN CROM- 
AGNON. - „ 

And now to THE ETHER VIBRATES, hallowed 
sanctum, where peoples’s opinions are always under 
Sarge’s feet, in the way and in general a bother to 
the editors. 

First, there is a letter from one U. G. Figley de- 
nouncing us letter-writers because we kick too much. 
There are fellows like that in all the magazines. 
They simply do not understand fen. The point is 
that w r e all like STF and we assume that the editors . 
know It. 

What the editors don’t know is exactly what de- 
tails we don’t like, so we send in letters to tell them. 
That is what makes them seem rather complaining. 

I notice that in. another letter sonjeone disliked 
the “Scrum Rubber Man” story. This may have 
been just a personal reaction, but it seems that there 
are a few readers who don’t like anything like that. 
Their stories must he “Blood and Thunder” and race 
along like a freightened thunderbolt Kindly keep 
up this character series of Doodle and Plast 

Another strange letter was furnished by Tom 
Pace. So he is afraid that some vampire will eradi- 
cate M. W. Wellman, huh? Tsk. Tsk. After all the 
experiments carried out by Houdini, Dunninger and 
Edison there are some people still superstitious 

Incidentally, somebody needs a pat on the back . 
for the excellent way the illustrations are arranged. 
Donnell for the novel, Morey for the Hall of Fame 
( Continued on page 104 ) 


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An explosion sounded In Len’s ear and the spy dropped the light (CHAPTER VI) 


IN 


>MIS 


Fleeing from the Cruet Masters of a Dying Earth, ten 
Niles, Champion of a Vanishing Race, Sails a Space-Ship 
into the Void on a Strange Quest for a New Planet! 


CHAPTER I 
Revolt of Silicon 

I T WAS plain Len Niles was in no mood 
to listen to suggestions. He had 
slouched down further into his seat 
and compressed his firm lips into a stubborn 
line. 


“The fact is, I don’t want a new pair of 
shoes,” he said. “These are only three weeks 
old and they aren’t even scratched. They’re 
just getting comfortable.” 

He stretched his long legs and put his feet 
on the table-top. Through the flexiglas it 
was apparent that he was luxuriously wrig- 
gling his toes. 


11 





12 j. STARTLINi 

“That is beside the point,” said Fred Niles, 
shaking his dark head. “You haven’t used 
up your quota card for this month and so 
you have to take a new pair of shoes.” 

Len Niles relaxed in the deep glass cush- 
ions. “If only they didn’t change styles 
every month, I could fool them.” 

“But they do,” Fred Niles answered. He 
looked closer. “The nail on. your third left 
toe is too long.” 

“I know,” said Len. He opened a glass 
case and- a hydroponic cigarette popped up. 
Smoke began to curl from its end: He low- 
ered his voice carefully. “Just between the 
two of us, I haven’t been taking the nail- 
inhibiting factor,” he said. “I thought it 
would be fun to trim them by hand.” He 
took the cigarette thoughtfully. “That’s the 
trouble. Things are too certain. We’re 
growing soft. Take these cigarettes, for in- 
stance. Have you ever seen one fail to 
light?”' .. 

“Once,” said Fred. “When I was small.”- 

Len bounced up and paced the pink glass 
living-room. “Wouldn’t it be fun if these 
things failed to work about half the time? 
What would we do then? How would we 
light them? If I had my way — there’s the 
chime.” ' 

“From the sound it must be Mirl,” said 
Fred. “About his size, anyway.” 

The two of them; in orange shorts and 
tunics, went to the door, their glastic clothes 
tinkling faintly as they walked. A section 
of the wall slid up silently, and the ascend- 
ing stair deposited a man of pale green skin 
that, strange to relate, rustled slightly un- 
der a pink tunic as he came in. 

“Greetings, my semi-silicon friend,” said 
- Len. . - ’ 

“Hello,” Mirl .said. 

“What’s the. matter with you?” asked Fred. 
“I’ve been talking to Jebek.” 

“Hm,” said Len. Seriousness came into 
his bronze face. 

“He says the Regulating Body is going to 
demand that you Nilesmen prepare to start 
the process of changing the Glassmen back 
' to carbon instead of silicon.” 

“It wouldn’t take many generations to do 
that,” S said Len. “The silicon attributes 
would be lost quickly if they stopped the 
hormone treatments and eliminated the sun- 
power catalyst from their diet. But it can’t 
be done now.” 

M IRL grew impatient. “We’re too re- 
stricted,” he said angrily. “For in- 
stance, we can’t leave the City of Glass for 
any length of time. The sun-energy bat- 


r STORIES 

teries won’t keep us going more than, a few 
hours.” 

Len was troubled. “I know how you 
feel.” He sat down and crossed^his bronze 
legs. “You are a Pale Green,” he said. 
“You’re already halfway back to carbon.” 

“It’s a matter for the entire race,” Mirl 
said, exasperated. “The whole world’s pop- 
ulation of Glassmen — twenty-five hundred 
persons — is involved. Why don’t you give 
in? It won’t hurt the Nilesmen.” 

Len brought out the tinted cigarette case. 
“Have one?” 

Mirl sighed and reached with his green- 
ish hand. “We want to be white, like you,” 
he said. 

“I’ll bet you one sando against a hundred 
it will light,” Len said to Fred. 

“You’re not taking enough odds,” Fred 
observed sourly, “but if I should lose — ” He 
brightened. 

The cigarette popped out and glowed red. 
Len handed him a white glass coin. 

“Thank you,” he said, and Fred scowled. 

“You know — ” Mirl began. 

“Wait,” said Len. He- sprang up. “Here’s 
the situation. For thousands of genera- 
tions the Glassmen worked to change to a 
silicon economy, because nitrogen, neces- 
sary to utilize carbon in the body, was dis- 
appearing from the earth.” 

“But your own great-grandfather thought 
up the idea.” 

“Yes. Hart Niles had to use some of the 
precious nitrate deposit for explosives to 
protect the City from the Cros. He built 
the machinery that fixed nitrogen from air, 
to assure perpetuation of the Glassmen un- 
til they could adjust themselves .entirely to 
silicon. At that time, even after three hun- 
dred thousand years, only two per cent of 
their body needs were furnished by silicon. 
Now, the figure is one point seven. A dan- 
gerous trend.” 

“But we want to get away from -silicon,” 
Mirl protested. 

“The 'time is not yet,” Len said patiently. 
“There are two reasons. One is the fact 
that the race would be dependent on ma- 
chinery— and our knowledge of iron and 
steel is not. yet sufficient. The other is the 
lack of fuel. If we had not had to seal up 
the caverns of the Cros, it would be differ- 
ent, but our present source will last not 
longer than two hundred ( years.- The only 
other coal mine is three thousand miles from 
the City.” He stopped and faced Mirl. “Do 
you know what that means?” 

“I suppose not.” . 

“It means that it would take more fuel 



14 STARTLING STORIES 


for going and coming, alone, than we could 
transport,” Len said heavily. 

“We have atomic-power engines.” 

“The City of Glass has produced, in the 
last hundred years, twenty-three thousand 
grams of U -Two-thirty -five — fifty pounds,” 
Len said. “Less than one-fourth enough to 
furnish transportation power for one year.” 

“At least we have sunpower,” Mirl said 
dogg^ily. 

“W-ie’ve never been able to turn sunpower 
into motive power efficiently,” Ken said 
^wearily; '' “With the best methods so far 
developed, we couldn’t supply more than 
half of one per cent.” He stopped, and the 
faint vigorous tinkling of his orange tunic 
ceased. “If we could develop a method of 
doing that job, then the change could be 
safely started. But until then, I will op- 
pose it” 

Mirl stiffened. Again his pale green skin 
rustled audibly and then was silent. “You 
Nilesmen are the ones who have the tech- 
nical knowledge necessary for the change, 
but if you’re going to be stubborn, we’ll 
see what the Regulating Body says.” 

Len eyed him steadily. “I don’t like to 
hear you talk that way, Mirl. You’ve been 
our best friend among the Glassmen. .1 
thought you would understand.” His jaws 
tightened for a moment. “The future of the 
City is vital to me as well as to you. If 
Kardox decrees the change, I’ll still fight it.” 

But Mirl’s face was set in diagonal lines. 
“If you won’t obey the Regulating Body, 
you will.be sent Outside,” he said. 

Len and Fred looked at each other after 
Mirl left. “It looks as if you’ll have to work 
for them,” said Fred dourly. 

Len Niles snorted. “Do you think that 
worries me when the solar system is about 
to be wrecked and the earth itself made into 
an interstellar graveyard?” he asked. 

OON after this Len Niles dismissed 
Mirl’s ominous warning from his mind 
and went to bed. 

The next morning, when Len Niles opened 
his eyes, he lay quiet for a moment, waking 
up. Then into the focus of his vision came 
the ceiling. Half asleep, he checked the 
dials idly, as he had done every morning for ■ 
two weeks now. 

A spot of light glowed at the figure eight 
on the red dial, another at nine on the blue 
dial, at three on the brown, two on the yel- 
low, three on the green, and two on the 
violet. > 

“The year eight hundred and ninety-three 
thousand, two hundred and thirty-two,” Len 


checked off, and went on. “One hundred 
and first day, seventh hour, fourteenth min- 
ute, and eighth second.” He sighed and 
burrowed deeper into the bed. “Some day/’ 
he thought cheerfully, “our time-keeping 
mechanism will go sunspotty, and then there 
will be excitement.” 

Suddenly his mind cleared.. He bounded 
from the spun-glass mattress. 

“Mother!” he called. “This is my day 
to work. Vacation is over.” 

His orange-colored tunic and shorts tin- 
kled faintly as he jerked them on. The 
glastic was just ductile enough to make the 
garments fit snugly. Len Niles went to the 
door in a bounding stride. 

A small white-haired woman smiled at 
him. “I wish you wouldn’t be so energetic, 
Len. The Greens already have given you 
demerits for working too hard.” 

“But, Mother, I like to be active.” 

She laid a thin hand on his hard young 
arm. “You are so young,” she said softly. 
And then, “Fred saw Mirl again, and Mirl 
blames you for all the trouble the Pale 
Greens are having with the Greens.” 

“But Mirl is our friend.” 

His mother looked up at his tousled light 
hair and into his clear blue eyes, and shook 
her head gently. 

“You’re as irrepressible as your great- 
grandfather, Hart Niles,” she said,, and stu- 
died him sadly. “We Nilesmen in the City of 
Glass are few in number. The three hundred 
of us now living are the closest descendants 
of a species that once ruled the earth, that 
numbered, Len — think! Over two billion 
persons!” 

The world that had supported incredible 
numbers of humans, the world that his great- 
grandfather had left eight hundred thousand 
years before on a flight through the galaxy 
at the speed of light — all this had been told 
and retold until it. was, like the legend of oil, 
known word for word by every Niles child. 

“When I was a young woman,” his mother 
said, “Grandfather Hart said that some day 
the Glassmen would resent our presence.” 

“But he saved the City of Glass” Len pro- 
tested. “If it were not for him, the human 
race would be extinct.” 

But his mother’s eyes were weary. “He 
said that if we are to survive, we must not 
forget that we are only visitors in the City 
of Glass.” She turned a little, and her glass 
dress shone with its traditional checkered 
colors. 

Len put his arm around her shoulders. 
“I’ll be careful, Mother.” His voice was very 
gentle. “I’ll try not to antagonize them.” 



IRON MEN 


UT he could not entirely control his 
eagerness. The problems of iron and 
steel were waiting for him. The great nitro- 
gen-fixation machines, deep under the City 
of Glass, were wearing out. 

“They should not have hampered the work 
in iron after Hart Niles died,” said Len Niles. 

“What would happen if the machines 
stopped permanently?” 

“Nothing— for a few generations. But we 
should have to go back to the nitrate deposit 
under the City. And since a great portion of 
that was used to make gunpowder, there is 
not very much left. The hydroponic gardens 
would die out and the City of Glass would 
starve to death. We Nilesmen would not 
have a chance, and the Glassmen would not 
now have time to finish adjusting their body 
economies to silicon instead of carbon. For 
that matter, they have slackened their efforts 
so much that already the artificial character- 
istics they had before Hart Niles came, have 
almost entirely disappeared except for their 
green skins. Suppose the machines should 
somehow be destroyed ?” he demanded. 

“Doesn’t iron last forever?” 

“It lasts, yes, but it wears — and it breaks 
often when it shouldn’t. It takes good metal 
—the best metal possible — to keep that ma- 
chinery working right.” 

A soft whistle from the pneumatic tube 
announced his meal. He carried the tray to 
the table. 

“The falcon-meat pie looks good this after- 
noon,” said his mother. 

“I’ll save it till the last,” Len decided. He 
ate the tasteless vegetables. “We’d be all 
right if the iron-making formulae left by 
Hart Niles hadn’t been lost. Since we’ve 
started to make steel again, it doesn’t hold 
up. There are impurities in it that I can’t 
seem to eliminate. There must be something 
we could use to cleanse that steel.” 

He finished the meat-pie and ate his orange. 

“There was a breakdown again yesterday. 
The drive-wheel shaft on the main com- 
pressor twisted, in two. I wasn’t supposed to 
be working, but I slipped down to examine 
it.” He frowned. “There was a spot in the 
center of the shaft where the steel had crys- 
tallized improperly. It’s the same with all 
the new parts we’ve been making. Can’t de- 
pend on them at all.” 

“I’m sure you can find the answer if any- 
one can,” said his mother. 

“If they let me,” said Len Niles. “They 
surely realize what has to be done, but still 
they won’t let us work at it.” He arose from 
the pink glass table and kissed his mother 
quickly. 


15 

“I’m off,” he said, “and I’ll be careful.” 


CHAPTER II 


The Brawn Trust 



EN NILES rode the moving stairway to 
the street, entered a magnetic car, and 
shot between the tinted glass buildings to a 
peach-colored dome. A frosted panel raised 
before him, but he couldn’t wait for the 
slowly ascending stair. He vaulted up the 
steps three at a time, and entered a door over 
which was a lighted legend : 

CITY OF GLASS CHEMICAL 
DIVISION 

Biochemical Branch, Inorganic Laboratory 

By the glowing chronometer he saw that 
he was early and felt a moment of discom- 
fort, remembering his mother’s' words. But 
then he was in a great room, in the laboratory 
itself, and the vast array of vacuum pumps, 
compressors, and multiple glass retorts at 
once caught his attention and stirred his in- 
terest almost to a fever. Man was made for 
this, to have his hands occupied with tools, 
his mind seething with questions, revolving, 
turning, and resolving into solutions. Len 
Niles took a great breath and stood with- 
out words. 

Fred Niles came across the floor of the 
laboratory, dark-haired and slender, his 
orange-colored glass clothing giving off 
faint musical notes. 

“You would have to show up early,” he 
said accusingly. 

Len Niles’ eyes roved over the long 
benches. “You forget that I’ve been off for 
two weeks,” he said. 

Fred glanced behind him. His eyes were 
shadowed. “Things have happened, too. The 
Brawn Trust has just decreed there shall be 
no more studying during vacations.” He 
looked straight at Len Niles. “They were 
watching you.” 

Len frowned. 

“And they’ve cut our working time to one 
and a half hours a day — four days a week,” 
said Fred. 

Len was startled. “What do they think we 
are?” he demanded. “Can’t a man keep busy 
at all any more?” 

“Not so loud. They’re watching every- 
body. Last week they had Bigyz in the 
laboratory. Noboy knew why. Of course 
we aren’t sure exactly what he can see with 




16 STARTLING STORIES 


those infra-red ray eyes of his.” 

“That’s bad, Fred — bad!” 

Fred’s face was dark and desperate. “The 
new overseer has decreed that there shall be 
no work during the rest period. There must 
be fifteen minutes of absolute rest in each 
shift. So long as everything we need is pro- 
vided, he says there is no reason why we 
should work so hard.” 

“Hard !.” Len Niles snorted, but he remem- 
bered to keep his voice low. “A man’s. brain 
will atrophy, like muscles, if he doesn’t use 
it.” 

Fred sounded resigned. “They’ll make 
Muscle Workers out of us instead of Brain 
Workers — unless you agree to convert them 
back to carbon.” 

Len hesitated. He reached for the hydro- 
pones and for a moment looked inquiringly 
at Fred. 

“Not unless you take a thousand to one,” 
Fredgrowled. 

Len stopped. “Okay, then.” He pressed 
the button. The cylinder popped, out and 
smoke curled up. Ken gave Fred a sando, 
but he wasn’t thinking about it. 

1 Fred glanced at the chronometer in the 
ceiling. “They figure the Pale Greens in the 
Organic Branch can take over our work after 
a while. They’ve been putting spies in there 
to make trouble between the Pale Greens 
and us — just to be sure we don’t get together 
on anything.” He watched the door far 
across the room. “You’d better go. The 
eighthkshift is : coming on.” 

“The Pales can’t possibly take up our 
work,” said Len. ‘They’re just beginners 
in chemistry. But there’s one good thing 
about cutting down our hours. It will give 
me more time — Below.” 

Fear came into Fred’s eyes. “That’s more 
dangerous, too. We’ve got to hurry with 
that work.” He moved nervously. “There’s 
a meeting tonight, east wing of the nitrate 
mine,, thirty-first level. See you then.” 

Len caught his arm. 

“Will Avis be there?” he asked. 

“Yeah.” 

Len Niles’ eyes lighted. Fred Niles hur- 
ried away, and Len went' to the dressing- 
room;’ The overseer, in a glass cubicle sus- 
pended from the ; ceiling, glared at him. 
“There’s still twelve minutes,” he growled, 
and his green skin rustled as he spoke. 
“What are you doing here, so early?” . 

Len Niles’ eyes widened. “I’ve finished my 
vacation,” he said. . “I’m gping to work;” 

“Well, take your time,” the overseer or- 
dered. “Nobody asked you to hurry, did 
they?” 


EN got into his flexiglas uniform and 
sat dejectedly on the bench watching 
the second-hand in the ceiling. His life was 
growing harder every day. Kardox knew 
the Nilesmen were filled with a constant, 
burning desire that had been handed down 
by both Hart Niles and Dr. Beckwith — the 
ambition to progress. And Kardox delibe- 
rately made it hard for them, knowing they 
had to stay and endure it, for out in the vast 
deserts that made up the entire known world, 
no man could long exist. 

The deserts had been there two hundred 
years before, when Hart Niles had come to 
the City of Glass, but Hart Niles hadn’t faced 
what the Nilesmen faced now in the City it r 
self. 

It was queer how things could .change. 
Startling, even; if you went back to the very 
beginning of the trip that had landed Hart 
Niles in the City of Glass. Eight hundred 
thousand years before — in what the ancients 
had called 1942— Hart Niles and Dr. Beck- 
with of the bifurcated beard and his daugh- 
ter, Carole, had left earth on a rocket-ship 
test-flight, got caught in the Fitzgerald con- 
traction, and after almost a million years in 
space had landed again on Earth and dis- 
covered the City, built as a refuge from sun- 
spot storms for the few people left on the 
planet. 

They had found the City was ereoted over 
the last remaining deposit of earth’s nitrate, 
and that the Glassmen, in a race against time, 
were changing their bodily economies to 
utilize silicon instead of carbon, because the 
use of carbon depended on nitrate. 

Hart Niles reached them just in time to 
help defend them from the Cros, a renegade 
cavern-people from the south, and then 
showed them how to fix nitrogen artificially 
to prolong their limited supply of nitrate, so 
they could be sure the race would not die out 
before they could be converted to silicon. 

Then Niles and Carole Beckwith married 
and founded a new race that came to be 
called Nilesmen. 

The Glassmen and the Nilesmen were alike 
except for some characteristics imparted the 
Glassmen by silicon — chief of which was a 
green, crackling skin — and so the Regulating 
Body had decided the Nilesmen should re- 
main as they were, depending on the hydro- 
ponic gardens for food, while the Glassmen, 
already a quarter of a million years on the 
road to silicon-people, should continue their 
course and try to become entirely independ- 
ent of nitrogen. 

But even though Hart Niles saved the 
City from the Cros and from the virulent 


IRON 

bitro and from premature exhaustion of the 
nitrate bed, friction had arisen in the follow- 
ing generations. As time passed, it had 
grown stronger and more violent, until now 
Len, Hart Niles’ direct descendant four gen- 
erations later, was fighting the Glassmen for 
freedom and even for survival in this city 
his ancestors had come to. 

The Cros had been wiped out by disease. 
The caves, with their sickly plants, had been 
sealed forever with molten glass. The only 
vegetation now possible on the entire earth 
was in the City of Glass. Len knew that no 
man could long exist Outside. 

It was well, then, that the work Below 
was reaching culmination. Without the hope 
held out by that work, the Nilesmen must 
assist at the extinction of humanity or they 
would be held to inaction that would destroy 
their abilities. 

If they couldn’t work, what would they do ? 
A. man couldn’t sit around all day. There 
wasn’t even any fun in betting on the mag- 
netic car races any more, since the Regulators 
kept a record of every transaction and paid 
back every sando that was lost. 

Len Niles’ great-grandfather had said that 
in the earth he had left, everybody had 
worked at least eight hours a day and there 
never were enough sandoes and never enough 
time for a man to do everything he wanted 
to do. 

There was plenty to do even now, but they 
couldn’t work at it. The Glassmen wanted 
to be white of skin like the Nilesmen, but the 
nitrogen supply wasn’t safe. Hart Niles had 
made the first fixation machinery himself, 
then Magrum died and the new Regulating 
Body resented the N'ilesmen’s white skins. 
They accused the Nilesmen of conspiring to 
keep them green. In a purge of Nilesman 
leaders they destroyed many of Hart Niles’ 
original notes — among them the formulae for 
making steel. 

The first machinery wore out and needed 
replacing, but no one knew how to make 
good steel. 

The irate Glassmen accused the Niles- 
men of intentionally making inferior ma- 
chines. The Nilesmen answered that the 
Glassmen were at fault for destroying the 
formulae. They asked for more time to ex- 
periment, but the Glassmen said the Niles- 
men would only use the time to better them- 
selves. 

Then had come a stroke from the skies. A 
few months ago, the observers in the Astro- 
nomical Dome had first reported a change 
of possibly vast significance in the earth’s 
movements. 


MEN .17 



Len couldn't help seeing Avis write down his name 
{CHAPTER VIII) 


18 STARTLING STORIES 


HIS aberration increased, became 
stronger, more pronounced, more omin- 
ous. Something, somewhere, was pulling 
the Earth from its age-old path around the 
Sun. Something was wrecking the solar sys- 
tem. 

The outer planets were the first to go — 
Pluto and Neptune. Uranus and Saturn 
were driving off into the vast depths of solar 
distance. Jupiter was erratic. Mars was on 
the opposite side of the Sun and they were 
not certain of the red planet’s behavior. 

But of. earth they were deadly sure. 

Earth itself was following the path to outer 
space. If the Earth should go much far- 
ther, it meant disaster and violent death for 
those few left on the globe. And what was 
there to stop it? Was there anything they 
could do? What, anyway, was behind this 
whirling solar catastrophe ? If they knew 
the reason,, perhaps something could be 
worked out. 

Len Niles saw the overseer staring at him 
and caught up his thoughts with a jerk. 
Some of those fellows,' they said, could read 
minds. Old Simon, the father of Fred and 
golden-haired Avis, had been caught that 
way. He had rebeled when reading was re- 
stricted, and soon afterward they convicted 
him of treasonable thoughts. Old Simon had 
known more about biochemistry than any of 
them. It was he who had first pointed out 
the danger of attempted reversion to a car- 
bon economy. 

Len sat up straight and pretended not to 
*see the overseer’s stare. He looked at the 
chronometer, and started up when he saw 
the moving light was fifty seconds past his 
work-time. 

“Half a minute late,” he thought, and 
strode rapidly into the laboratory. 

But a heavy hand fell on his arm. 

“You don’t have to beat Mercury around 
the sun,” the overseer snarled, his green face 
yellow. “What are you trying to do, accom- 
plish something?” 

Len hid his resentment. “Not particularly,” 
he said, gently. “I’m just trying to pass the 
time.” 

Seething with anger, Len went to his place 
at the bench in the long laboratory ‘ room. 
He lighted a retort mechanically, because 
he wasn’t able to think straight at that mo- 
ment and he wanted to get his hands busy so 
his mind would follow them. But the green 
face of the overseer was still at his side. 

“What’s your problem?” he demanded. 

“The — ah — ” Len hesitated. He didn’t 
want them . to know he was still thinking 
about iron. His eyes roved the columns of 


glass containers. Iron and its complex cya- 
nides, the big manganese family, titanium and 
its carbides— -something must furnish an ex- 
cuse. 

“The artificial creation of a sugar mole- 
cule,” he said as if inspired. 

The overseer laughed and his glassy skin 
crackled. “You know the Regulating Body 
frowns on flavor in foods. We real Glass- 
men,” he said pointedly, “have never needed 
it.” 

“I know,” Len said innocently. “But I want 
to earn my sandoes.” 

Scowling the Glassman turned away. 

“Go ahead, then.” He left, and Len looked 
around at Fred. 

“I made a high albedo with that,” Len 
whispered cheerfully. “He doesn’t know the 
difference between organic and inorganic.” 

Fred scowled. “We won’t get by with any- 
thing much longer.” 

“We can if we’re careful.” 

“If they ever find out that you are really 
'directing the work in the entire Branch, you 
will be banished into the desert.” 

Len Niles’ hands were busy, but he grinned. 
“I’ll have one chance in twenty-four to get 
into the underground laboratory alive,” he 
answered. “That’s good enough for me. I 
could work all I want to, then.” 

His mind operated like a magnetic shuttle. 
He pretended to carry through the experi- 
ment with sugar, while mentally he listed 
the equipment he would need for the next 
day — a small electric furnace, a quantity of 
ore, perhaps a little columbium or iridium to 
see what effect it might have on the product. 
Tomorrow they wouldn’t pay much attention 
to him, especially if he should' come in a few 
minutes late. He had barely assembled his 
apparatus for a first test in sugar when the 
chimes rang for the rest period. By the time 
he had brought the solution to a boil and 
had obtained a small vial of hydrochloric 
acid from the supply room, the chimes rang 
again for the end of the shift. 

# NLY then did his enthusiasm drop. He 
looked at the apparatus and' his open 
notebook, with not yet a scratch on its thin 
glass page, and his jaw tightened a little. He 
took off the apron, laid it in a drawer, and 
reluctantly started to put away his material. 
But the overseer was there again. 

“Your time is up.” His voice was like 
gritting glass. “The next shift will clean up 
the bench.” 

Len drew a deep breath and faced him. 

“I always clean up my own bench,” he said 
slowly. “We all do our own cleaning.” 




IRON 

“The new rules are that you clean up your 
bench on shop-time only. .1 am giving you . 
ten demerits for working overtime. That 
brings your life total to seven hundred and 
thirty. You go Outside on a thousand.” 

Len Niles’ resentment boiled. 

“Asteroids!” he said. 

The overseer’s face crackled in triumph. 
“Twenty-five more for insubordination. That 
brings your life total to seven hundred and 
fifty-five.” 

Len felt a surge of recklessness. He opened 
his' mouth to answer. Then he saw Fred’s 
slim hand raised to caution him as Fred put 
away his apron. Len clamped his jaw to- 
gether. He went slowly to the locker-room. 
Rebellion seethed inside him. He was openly 
deliberate in changing into his orange-col- 
ored tunic. What if they did send him Out- 
side? Only twenty-three out of twenty-four 
died out there. If they didn’t take him too 
far from the City, and if they happened to 
take him shortly before sundown, he wouldn’t 
be tortured, by the sun and he might escape 
the wheels and the sun-eating flowering pan- 
cakes and the giant desert fungus. Perhaps 
after dark, he might even locate the entrance 
to the underground laboratory, and — he 
shrugged ! 


CHAPTER III 
Menacing Prospects 


B UT Len Niles was not spoken to again. 

He reached his pink-glass apartment 
and sank restlessly into a chair. His mother 
watched him quietly. 

“Was it bad today, son?” she asked. 

He nodded, staring at the wall. 

His mother’s eyes were damp. “Your 
father defied the Greens, and he was crushed 
by a wheel within a few minutes after they 
put him Outside.” Her voice broke for a 
moment, and then she went on, very tired. 
“There are so few of us left, Len.” 

Len softened. “I’ll try harder, Mother,” 
he said earnestly. 

He touched a button on the table. Fred's 
face appeared a moment later on the radio- 
visual screen. 

“I’m coming over at fifteen hundred,” 
Len said. “Let’s go to the Black. Dome.” 
He was casual. “I think I’ve figured out a 
way to beat the Big Arena.” 

Fred nodded. 

Len touched a button and turned to his 
mother. “The screen wasn’t clear.” 


MEN 19 

“It has been like that all week,” his 
mother reminded. 

Len frowned. “We’ve never had inter- 
ference before. The City is shielded from 
all normal disturbances.” 

Fred was waiting for him. He looked up 
and down the glass street carefully. “I had 
a message from father,” he said in a low 
voice. 

“He wants to be sure you see him tonight. 
The earth’s center of gravity has taken a 
definite shift, he says.” 

Len Niles eyes tightened. “We didn’t 
expect that for two years.” 

“How much time do you suppose is left 
now?” 

Len was sober. “A few months at most,” 
he said. 

Fred sucked in his breath and then the 
corners of his mouth turned down. “We 
might as well be dead, anyway — the way ' 
we’re living,” he said morosely. 

They stopped a magnetic car and got in. 
They flashed high above the quiet street and 
between softly glowing buildings of pink 
and green and yellow and orchid. 

“I wonder if Mirl will be at the meeting 
tonight,” Fred said once. 

Len pressed a button and the car stopped 
silently before the Black Dome. They rode 
the platform to ground level, stepped on a 
wide crystal escalator and were carried 
through the great entrance to the Black 
Dome. 

“Crowded tonight,” Len observed hope- 
fully. “Do you suppose somebody’s losing?” 

“Not a chance,” said Fred. 

They registered at a small desk in a huge, 
brilliant lobby. 

“You’re Nilesmen,” said the Glassman, his 
eyes darting over them. “Any weapons?” 

Len bristled. “Of course not.” 

They rode on through the lobby. The 
moving walk took them into a room filled 
with soft music and the rustling of Glass- 
men’s skins. 

“Since they learned to make alcohol, the 
Curved Light Room has been the most pop- 
ular place in the City,” said Len. 

Fred’s dark head shook dolefully. “I don’t 
like it. You can’t even pay for them.” 

, “Nevertheless we need a drink,” Len said 
firmly. 

He stepped off, and Fred followed. They 
moved in between a Glassman in the peach- 
colored tunic of Administration and an- 
other in the green tunic of a guard. Len put 
his foot on the glass rail. 

“A Sizzling Rocket for me,” he said cheer- 
fully. 


20 STARTLING STORIES 


“Me, too,” said Fred, and his . dark eyes 
lighted a little. 

But the Glassman in the black tunic shook 
his head. His neck crackled. 

“Sorry, gentlemen, I can’t serve that drink 
today,” he said. 

Len frowned. He looked down the bar 
and across the room at a golden-skinned 
Glasswoman sipping a drink. 

“I see a couple of them.” 

The barman hesitated. There was a rus- 
tle at Len’s back, and he turned. Mirl, in 
the pink tunic of the Organic Laboratory, 
held a drink in his pale green hand. 

Mirl was a little unsteady. His green face 
was .flushed with dull red. 

“You Nilesmen can’t have these high-pow- 
ered drinks.” His voice crackled huskily. 
“It’s a new ruling to save trouble.” 

n E LIFTED his own drink high. It 
was in a deep, narrow glass, of in- 
visible crystal. Little fountains of light — 
orange, red, and yellow — shot up through 
the ambent liquid and burst like tiny comets 
just above the surface. Mirl turned it in 
his hand and then took a deep drink. 

Len Niles’ eyes became narrow. His right 
arm drew back, his fist clenched. But Fred 
jumped in front of him. 

“You don’t want to go Outside, do you?” 
he muttered. 

Len drew a deep breath. His arm slowly 
straightened, but he glared at Mirl. 

' “I can give you a Desert Pancake,” the 
barman offered. 

Len stared at him. “I’ve just discovered- 
that I’m not thirsty,” he said. He stalked 
away. 

They rode the walk to a high-ceilinged 
room where the walls glowed with a soft 
pink light that tempered even the harshness 
of the Glassmen’s skins. 

“It’s crowded,” said Len, “but I don’t see 
any Nilesmen.” 

“Some Pales,” Fred observed. “But they’re 
getting to be as bad as the Greens.” 

Len shouldered a way among crowded ta- 
bles to the Big Arena. Two Glassmen, hav- 
ing won at least twenty-five hundred san- 
does, got up disgustedly. Len and Fred sat 
down at a wide, transparent table. Its 
thirty feet of length was filled with players 
on both' sides. 

“Let’s just play a sando at a time and 
watch for a few minutes,” said Len. “That 
way, we can’t win much.” He opened a 
notebook and placed one sando. He 
watched the table and the plays and tabu- 
lated results. 


The table slanted down toward the mid- 
dle. Through its center were five big 
wheels, each marked off in one hundred 
sections tinted in different colors. The 
wheels whirred, and ten glass balls, each a 
different color and glowing with soft light, 
were whirled around the rails by magnetic 
force, and almost at once became little col- 
ored comets chasing one another. 

The operator, suspended in a glass cubicle 
over the center of the arena, touched a lever. 
The balls lost their magnetism, continued 
their orbits for a moment against the re- 
taining wall, and then began to flash errat- 
ically across the table, and finally trickled 
into the slowly revolving wheels. The 
wheels came to rest, the balls stopped their 
bouncing and dropped into holes at the 
edges of the disks. One ball, a yellow one, 
lighted up. 

“Yellow on blue-green, Number Four, 
pays five thousand to one,” announced the 
operator. “Better luck next time, sir.” A 
Glassman groaned, and the players were 
politely silent. For a moment there was 
not even the rustle of a movement, then 
came the operator’s voice. 

“The more you play 1 , the more you lose.” 

Len watched the game for ten more plays, 
making rapid calculations, and playing just 
enough to hold his place at the table. By 
that time he had won about 'twenty sandoes, 
and Fred was scowling over a stack of forty. 
Len took a deep breath, pushed out a ni- 
trate disk and punched nine of the lighted 
buttons before him with great care. 

The operator looked down at him. 

“Twenty sandoes on a five-way, all-spot 
book.” came his rasping intonation over the 
intervisor. There was a hush around the 
table. “White on red, blue on purple, red 
on green, orange on white, and black on red. 
All balls to light, which means each ball 
must stop on its selected color in a pre- 
designated wheel.” He glanced at a chart. 
“It is my duty to warn you that a win pays 
eight hundred thousand,” he said. 

There were groans from the table, but 
Len nodded grimly. 

“With my luck,” Fred growled, “I’d win 
even that one.” But he followed Len’s bet, 
to a crackling eyebrow-lifting from the oper- 
ator. 

The wheels spun, the balls whirled, and 
they lost. Len grinned happily. 

“I’ve got it now,” he said. He consulted 
his figures and placed a half-disk on a five- 
way book. The Glassmen around the table 
were silent except for the crackling of their 
necks as they watched. 

& 


IRON MEN 21 

F RED was morose. demanding an election to fill Simon’s va- 

“If we win, we’ll never get rid of cancy on the body.” 
these sandoes.” “Why should we not.” A flat statement. 

“We won’t,” said Len. “I’m dropping the “And I presume you will be the candi- 

bet, you see. If we’re lucky, we’ll get rid date,” Jebek went on. 
of the entire period’s credit,” “I have not considered it,” Len answered 

“I hope so. There’s nothing else to do evenly, 
with it. But the odds are figured so you “Then don’t.” Jebek’s voice was raspy, 

can’t lose.” Len Niles’ eyes were narrow. His left 


But within three hours Len was beaming, 
and Fred had softened up. They had each 
lost eight hundred of their thousand san- 
does for the period. 

At one play they won a payoff of sixty 
thousand, but Len had resolutely doubled 
the bet and increased the odds until his 
winnings were gone, and Fred had followed 
him until he had finally got his breath back. 

“From now on we’ll have some fun,” Len 
said, scrutinizing his figures. “I’ve got a 
system.” He heard the intonation of the 
operator, “Put your sandoes on the table. 
The more you play, the more you lose,” but 
Len shook his head. 

“Quitting when you’re behind, eh?” said 
a rasping voice at Len’s elbow. “It won’t 
do you any good. Every play is recorded 
on the calculating machines, . and all you 
lose is re-posted to your credit at the end of 
the period.” 

Len frowned abstractedly, then looked up 
with a start at a golden-tunicked Glassman 
who was scanning his notes. Len straight- 
ened as the meaning of the words came to 
him with full force. 

“Jebek,” he said slowly and distinctly, “I 
well know that you are the younger brother 
of Kardox, but you are exceeding your po- 
sition.” 

Jebek smiled, but his green eyes glinted. 
“You will do better to watch your tone.”. 

“The Regulating Body has no right to 
interfere with the pleasure of the citizens 
unless some one else is injured,” Len re- 
torted. 

“A laboratory lawyer,” Jebek sneered. 

“If I want to lose my credit, that is my 
business,” Len said evenly, and got to his 
feet. 

“It is against the law,” Jebek said coldly. 
“It should not be,” Len said distinctly. 
“I have no need for credit. My physical 
wants are taken care of, and I cannot buy 
books. What good is credit? Our only 
recreation is in trying to dispose of it.” 

Play had stopped at the arena. The play- 
ers, in many colors of tunic, were motion- 
less and silent, their green necks twisted. 

“You criticize a ruling of the Regulating 
Body,” sneered Jebek. “Next, you will be 


hand tightened on his notebook. 

“We are unarmed,” Fred reminded him 
in a low voice. 

“Is it important whether Aldebaran’s 
magnitude is one and one-tenth, or one and 
nine-hundredths?” Len asked Fred, his eyes 
on Jebek and his voice cold. 

Fred grew pale, but a Glassman came into 
the room' and hurried up to Jebek. 

“Kardox wants you at once,” he said. 
“The black spot has covered the constella- 
tion of Hercules and the solar drift has ac- 
celerated doubly in the last forty hours.” 

Jebek’s lips grew thin. He wheeled, his 
skin protesting, and pushed through the 
crowd, followed by the peach-tunicked mes- 
senger. The whir of the glass balls signaled 
the start of play on the Arena. The Glass- 
men turned back, began to place bets and 
finger their indicator buttons. 

Len and Fred left quietly. 

“So they know it, too,” Len whispered. 
His voice was hollow. “The. pull, must have 
grown suddenly. At the last report from 
Simon, you said — ” 

“You would have to pick an .argument 
with Jebek,” Fred answered sourly. “Not 
just a member of the Regulator’s family, but 
a brother of Number One. Do you want to 
go Outside?” 

Len was sober. “There’s one chance in 
twenty- four.” 

“You’ve forgotten that no person who has 
been sent out alone has ever escaped,” said 
Fred. “But why worry?” His voice was 
harsh. “The way things are going, the 
whole solar system will be smashed up be- 
fore long, and these troubles won’t be as 
important as the diameter of Umbriel.” 


CHAPTER IV 
Thirty-Fifth Level 


F RED and Len stopped at the desk to 
register out. The Glassman looked up 
and his face crackled in a smile. 

“Lucky tonight, gentlemen?” 

“Yes,” said Len. 



STARTLING STORIES 


The news had spread fast. A party came 
from. the Curved Light Room, and a golden- 
skinned Glasswoman spoke in an admiring 
whisper. 

“They just lost sixteen hundred sandoes. 
I wish I knew their system.” 

They rode out quietly. “It isn’t so good,” 
Len said. “We’ll be marked men for days.” 

Instead of taking a magnetic car, they 
turned in the direction away from the Golden 
Dome of Regulation and walked rapidly. 

“Why not ride?” asked Fred. 

“It’s risky. The load would show on the 
new supersensitive oscillators. We can’t take 
a chance tonight.” 

After four blocks Len stopped before a 
viewing globe and pretended to adjust his 
tunic. 

“Over-suspicious, aren’t you?” asked Fred. 

“Ha, the sun calls Halley’s Comet a fire- 
ball,” Len said. He straightened and revolved 
slowly before the globe. “There were two 
Glassmen following us. They’ve stopped 
behind a corner a block back.” . 

“Maybe it’s a holddown,” said Fred. 
“Maybe they’re the ones who won twenty- 
five hundred, and they want to get rid of 

them. ” 

“I hope it’s no more than that.” 

He grabbed Fred’s arm and they went 
down a street to the right, turned right again, 
then left, and finally wound their way back 
toward the Golden Dome. They rode up the 
high steps and Len spoke crisply to the 
guard. 

“Inspection of machinery,” he said. 

The door slid up. They were in a long hall 
of frosted, glowing, vari-tinted floor and 
walls. They stepped onto the waiting-plate. 
Somewhere a chime sounded, then a golden 
glow skipped upward along a column of tiny 
white bulbs. The elevator-doors opened. 

"Thirty-fifth level,” Len said. 

The Glassman glanced up. “Is the nitro- 
gen machinery breaking down again?. I just 
took a party down there.” 

Len took the package of hydropones from 
his pocket. He looked at Fred, but Fred 
scowled and shook his head. Ken offered 
one to the elevator operator as the floor sud- 
denly dropped under them. The operator 
reached eagerly. 

But Len held up his hand. 

“Hold a minute. I’ll bet you one to. a hun- 
dred it will light.” 

“Oh, no,” he answered immediately, but 

then, “One to a hundred?” His eyes began 
to glow.. “I saw one fail, once. I’ll take it.” 

The hydropone popped out. Smoke curled 
up. Len satisfiedly. gave the man a sando. 


“Yes, we have had some trouble with the 
fixers,” he said, casually. “But we’ll get it 
straightened out pretty soon.” 

The elevator dropped. The throbbing of 
the big machines began to come to them 
from the bottom level of the mine, where 
their, depth kept all noise from the quiet. city 
above. They left .the elevator and stepped 
into a giant room with walls of gleaming 
white crystals. Down here it was a relief 
from the always silent' City above. The floor 
was filled, with rows of big machines, whir- 
ring, pounding, sucking in 'air through a huge 
tunnel that came from the desert Outside, 
compressing it to one thousand atmospheres, 
passing it over an osmium catalyst, and col- 
lecting gaseous ammonia as the final product. 

They walked among the machines and en- 
tered a tiny elevator that took them to a 
glass cage high in the center of the fixer- 
room. The superintendent, a Nilesman, 
shook hands with them. 

“I’m glad you came down,” he said. “We’ll 
have to start using uranium as a catalyst to- 
morrow. The osmium has been used so long 
we’ve lost too much for effectiveness.” 

“Uranium?” Len frowned, thinking deeply. 
“How’s the store of iron and molybdenum ?” 

“Plenty of iron,” the man said in a wor- 
ried voice, “but no molly.” 

“Don’t use any more uranium than you 
have to,” Len said. “We may need it — later.” 

HE man looked at him .and nodded. 
“Is the way clear?” asked Len. 

“Yes. I’ve got all the men working on that 
compressor shaft at the other end. It froze 
up again.” 

“Then the oil we made from asparagus 
didn’t work.” 

“No. I think we’ll have to go back to sul- 
phuric acid.” 

“Hart Niles spoke of a mineral oil, but 
we’ve never been able to find that.” 

“The acid is a good lubricant — and non- 
corrosive, if it’s one hundred per cent pure.” 

“Okay,” said Len. “I’ll start the labora- 
tory on it tomorrow.” 

He and Fred went down through the ma- 
chinery into an old store-room, at the back of 
which Len moved a lever in the dark. A 
small section of the wall swung open, and 
they went through. 

They were in a high, narrow passage cut 
from solid nitrate. It was dimly lighted, but 
the white crystals gleamed and glittered dully 
all around them. They started up a long, 
spiral incline. There was no dust on the 
white floor, though the mine hadn’t been 
worked for a hundred years, and. was now 



IRON MEN 


23 


only a reserve held for future use. 

“I wish we were rid of Mirl,” said Fred in 
a low voice. “He’s the only Glassman who 
knows about this.” 

Len Niles made no comment. 

“It used to be fun, but it’s getting danger- 
ous now,” Fred went on. 

“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Len. “Here 
we are — thirty -first' level.” 

They turned down a dark corridor and 
presently came to a door marked with an- 
cient lettering, “Foreman,” visible only in 
far-reflected light against the white nitrate 
crystals of the passage. 

Len stopped and held up his hand to cau- 
tion Fred. They stood completely silent, 
watching behind them. Then Len pressed 
a button in the wall. A moment later the 
door swung in and soft light flooded the cor- 
ridor. They went inside quickly and the 
door closed behind them. 

“Hello, Len,” said a quiet voice. 

Len looked at the girl. Her blond hair 
shone softly at about the level of his shoul- 
der. Her pink glass shoe-heels caught the 
light as she stepped forward and looked up at 
him. 

Len’s eyes lighted. He caught her briefly 
by the elbows. 

“How are you, Avis?” 

“I feel as good as you look,” she said, not 
taking her eyes from his. 

“Swell,” he said, and shook hands with 
Walter, a dark, slender boy who was a 
younger and smaller copy of Fred. 

“Something’s got to be done, fast,” said 
Walter. 

“Pluto still waits for warmth,” Len re- 
minded him. 

There were six other Nilesmen in the small 
room. Len shook hands with them all and 
they waited for him to speak. He produced 
a package of hydropones. 

“Not me,” said Fred sourly. “I’ve already 
won too much from you.” 


“Let’s get to business,” said Walter im- 
patiently. “The rest of us don’t know much 
about this danger to Earth.” 

“None of us really know much about it,” 
Len said soberly. “Except that the entire 
solar system is being torn apart by some un- 
known force. Unless something intervenes, 
the Earth is "certain to be destroyed, or at 
least to be thrown into the cold and darkness 
of outer space where life cannot exist.” He 
looked at Avis and drew a deep, breath. “The 
trouble now is that this is coming to a climax 
much sooner than we thought it would.” 

“If we could make a space-ship, the Niles- 
men— or some of us— could leave the Earth 
and hunt another planet, somewhere in the 
universe,” said Walter. 

Len shook his head. “And leave the City 
to itself?” 

“Why not?” demanded Walter. “What 
have the Glassmen done for us?” 

“We have some friends among the Glass- 
men,” said Len. “Don’t forget that Aldo is 
on our side, and he is descended from Perso, 
who many times saved Hart Niles.” 

“That’s all in the past,” Walter argued. 
“It’s every man for himself now. We’ve got 
to be practical.” 

Some heads nodded, but they waited for 
Len Niles to answer. < 

“I don’t favor practicality above human- 
ity,” Len answered. “However—” 

U(|*j E STOPPED. The lights dimmed and 
MlH then came back. Len looked around. 

“Who isn’t here?” he asked sharply. 

“It must be Mirl,” Fred said glumly. 

Len Niles frowned. Walter jumped up. 

“That tenth moon of a tenth moon,” he 
said. “I’ll take care of him.” 

“Sit down, Walt,” Avis said quietly, and 
Walter sat back slowly. 

“We’ll have to let him in,” Len decided. 
“If we keep him out, he might report us for 
[Turn page] 




94 STARTLING STORIES 


bolding a secret meeting.” He looked around 
at them. “Be sure that no word of a space- 
ship gets out.” He went to the door 

Mirl lurched, in as it opened. His pale 
skin was more red now than green. He 
smelled heavily of Sizzling Comets, and his 
speech was thick. “Jus’ ol’ friends having a 
little convention. Don’t mind me, folks. I 
feel at home here. I’ll just have a seat an’— 
an’— lishen.” He waved at them. “Go right 
ahead with your business.” 

He waved toward a chair and sat down 
heavily. 

“Well, what you waiting for?’* he de- 
manded. “Something secret going on?” 

“It’s business for Nilesmen,” Walter said 
sharply, before Len could stop him. 

“Oh, ho.” Mirl leaned forward and finally 
fixed his gaze on Walter. “An unborn planet 
in the system, eh?” 

“I’m almost as old as you are,” Walter said 
hotly. 

“Walter!” said Avis, and Fred moved to- 
ward him, but Walter could not be stopped. 

“We didn’t ask you to this meeting,” he 
shouted. “ Y ou came down here to spy on 
us and report to Kardox!” . 


; CHAPTER V 
Mass 


WIFTLY Len Niles was on his feet, but 
it was too late. Mirl’s face turned a 
brilliant green. 

“I thought I was a friend of the Niles- 
men,” he muttered. “You treat me like a 
runaway asteroid.” 

“I think we’d better break it up until this 
internal combustion has a chance, to expend 
itself,” said Len. He tried to talk calmly, 
but his words were clipped a little for he was 
anxious to get the two men separated. 

Mirl managed to get on his feet. He waved 
at them in a supreme gesture to recover his 
dignity. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “I can’t stay long,, 
anyway.” 

He weaved to the door. There was nothing 
they could do. The Nilesmen gathered 
around Len and watched Mirl until the door 
closed behind him. 

“Walter!” Avis was much worried. “You’ve 
upset things now.” 

“I don’t care.” Walter’s voice had an 
acid note. “He’s a green rat. He’ll tell on 
us as soon as he gets up Above.” He stood 
in the doorway. “I’m going to follow him. 


If he tries to tell, I’ll fix him.” 

“Come back here,” commanded Fred, and 
started for him, but Walter got away fast. 

“One of you had better follow Walter,” 
said Len Niles. “Try to keep him out of 
trouble.” 

“Do you think Mirl will talk?” 

“I don’t know,” Len said. “He never has, 
but now he has been insulted — and he’s 
drunk. Who can accurately predict the re- 
turn of Halley’s Comet? Anyway, let’s find 
our respective orbits.” 

They returned to the fixer-room. Len took 
Fred and Avis to the superintendent’s cubicle 
until the others had gone Above. Then, 
while the superintendent covered their exit, 
they went down glass steps into the pit un- 
der one of the machines, and soon were in 
a tunnel so steep they could not have walked 
at all but for the steps which had been cut 
in the nitrate. 

“It seems dangerous to leave through the 
fixer-room,” said Avis. 

“It’s quite safe unless some one suspects 
us and keeps watch. There are more ma- 
chines than men, and the men are kept pretty 
busy. So, with ten different exits, we won’t 
be noticed. 

They descended eight hundred steps, sev- 
eral times coming to what appeared to be the 
end of the tunnel. But each time Len found 
a white button somewhere in the wall, pressed 
it eight times fast and one time slow, or seven 
fast, one slow, one fast — the order always 
varied— and the end of the tunnel would 
open. 

The last door let them into a long, low- 
ceilinged room. Less than a dozen men, most 
of them well past eighty, were quietly at 
work at the tables and benches. The ceiling 
here was of nitrate, but the fioo.r was cut 
from solid rock. 

From behind them came steps. A small 
man, wrinkled and gray-haired and bent- 
shouldered, hurried to them. 

“Simon,” Len Niles said, and shook hands 
warmly. 

“Father!” said Avis. 

“Len, I’m glad to see you.” The little maii 
shook hands with Fred and kissed his daugh- 
ter. “Avis; my child, you are beautiful,” he 
said huskily. 

“I’ve grown up in the last two years, Dad.” 
Her eyes were moist. 

“How are you getting along?” asked Len. 

“Well enough with the men we have,” said 
Simon. 

“How is Ben?” 

“He’s well again. He does all right for a 
man of a hundred and twenty,” said Simon. 



* IRON 

‘‘I don’t know what we’d do without him. 
No one else knows as much about the atomic- 
power engine.” 

“You all do well,” Len said emphatically. 
“With only ten men, I don’t see how you get 
so much done.” 

“We work sometimes twenty hours a day.” 
Len Niles’s blue eyes brightened. “I wish 
we could do that.” 

“It’s all we have to do, except try to rescue 
others from Outside,” said Simon. 

Len’s face became grim. “Keep a lookout 
for me,” he said. 

Simon took them into his office behind the 
door through which they had come. 

“Fred said you wanted to see me,” Len 
suggested as they sat down. 

“Yes.” 

T HE old fellow leaned back in a big chair 
that would have held three of him. 
They all waited. Old Simon’s eyes took on a 
harassed look. He put his fingertips to- 
gether. 

“There is an unknown body of great mass 
which seems to have swept in from the outer 
reaches of the universe,” he said. “It’s come 
between the solar system and the constella- 
tion Hercules. In effect, it’s cutting us off , 
from the rest of the galaxy.” 

Len Niles’ eyes were on the viewing-sphere, 
watching the outer door. Now he offered 
Simon a hydropone. 

“A hundred to one that it lights,” he said. 
Simon looked amused. “Is it the same 
principle?” he asked. 

“Yes. A speck of treated phosphorus that 
burns for a second when it pops out of the 
vacuum package.” 

“If I may see it?” said Simon, leaning for- 
ward. He held the package close to his eyes 
and examined it. 

“I’ll tak'e the bet, he said, his eyes crink- 
ling. “No, let me do it.” 

He took a deep breath, pressed the button, 
and a cigarette popped out before his nose. 
A tiny curl of smoke came up. This lasted 
for a few seconds then — died. The hydro- 
pone was unignited. 

Fred’s eyes opened wide. Len watched 
closely. 

“Asteroids!” he finally said, and reluctantly 
took the five nitrate disks. 

“They’re no good down here, anyway,” said 
Simon. He smiled as he handed the pack- 
age back. 

Len pretended to be casual as he put the 
package in his pocket, but he was eyeing it 
closely. 

“Where did this unknown body come 


MEN 25 

from?” asked Avis. “Do you know?” 

Simon shook his head. “It must have been 
present somewhere in the cosmos, in the 
vicinity of the solar system, since the in- 
finite beginning of time.” 

“What do you mean by ‘vicinity’?” asked 
Fred. 

Simon smiled at him. “Oh, within a radius, 
say, of a hundred or two hundred parsecs. 
There is evidence to confirm this theory — 
discrepancies that have always puzzled 
astronomers. The black bodies, for in- 
stance.” 

“What are black bodies ?” asked Avis. 

“Something that has, from primitive time, 
caused mysterious black spots on photo- 
graphic plates. According to Hart Niles’ 
notes, the best theory in the old days of 
Earth supposed an absorbing material some- 
where near the center of the stellar galaxy — 
but I believe that perhaps this unknown body 
may be the answer. It must move at terriffic 
speed and change its position constantly. 
Just now it is approaching much closer than 
ever before — within a few parsecs, I would 
say. That would explain things — even the 
televisual disturbances which you must have 
noticed lately.” 

“I’m sure that isn’t your only basis for 
postulating an unknown body of great mass,” 
said Len Niles. 

Simon leaned back, his fingertips together. 
“You must realize that celestial mechanics 
is a highly developed field. Astrophysical 
workers can observe and predict the move- 
ment of any body quite accurately, so that 
even in the former days of earth, astronomers 
should have been able to calculate the exact 
time at which Halley’s Comet would reach 
perihelion — to the moment, even.” He 
stopped and watched old Ben carefully ad- 
justing a quartz mask over his face. 

“You mean before the City of Glass?” said 
Avis quietly. 

“Yes, yes, of course, my dear. You must 
realize that legions of mathematicians in 
those primordial days compiled masses of 
data and figures, but never were they able to 
predict it more closely than within three 
days — an unforgivable discrepancy.” He 
leaned back in the big chair until his feet left 
the floor. “And there was little possibility 
of error, for their methods of observation 
were much better than my limited facilities 
here.” 

“Oh, Dad, I wish we could get more things 
for you,” said Avis. 

“Never mind, never mind,” Simon said 
testily. “Remember this. All observers and 
calculators in the realm of history”— he 


STARTLING STORIES 


leaned forward until his toes touched the 
floor again — “have concluded there must be 
an influence on the comet from some cause 
unknown.” 

“What you are getting at is that the comet 
has been influenced by this, unknown body 
for the last million years?” said Fred. 

“Yes, yes.” 

“But,” said Fred, “if I recall, the book said 
the comet’s orbit is thirty-five astronomical 
units. Pluto’s orbit is greater than that.” 

“Yes, a little,” said Simon. He leaned to 
one side and pressed a button. 

A SMALL model of the solar system 
sprang into life before them, with the 
sun a small blazing ball, Mercury, a tiny 
black dot, Venus a green ball, and Mars a 
red planet. They all were there, even to 
Pluto, and all revolved and moved in or- 
derly fashion around the tiny sun, with'noth- 
ing but magnetism to hold them in ' place 
and control their movements. “Notice that 
all the planets are! within seven degrees of 
the same plane,” said Simon. “Whereas the 
aphelion .point of Halley’s comet”— he indi- 
cated a flaming ball beneath — “is consider- 
ably below that plane.” He looked up as a 
hum rose from some mechanism that Ben 
was working on, and a look of satisfaction 
came into his eyes. He turned back. “Sup- 
pose a body of powerful attractive force 
were to lie under this plane.” His. old eyes 
sparkled. 

_ “It’s strange the asteroids aren’t, affected.” 
Fred pointed to a moving ring like stardust. 
“Some of their orbits vary thirty degrees 
from the plane of , the ecliptic.” 

“Quite true. But let’s theorize further. 
We know little of comets. Suppose a comet 
to be made up of some substance — an un- 
known element of unknown powers — that is 
peculiarly susceptible to some other un- 
known element of opposite powers.” 

He stopped, embarrassed a little at his 
own far-flung reasoning. 

“Well, it could be true,” Simon said de- 
fensively. “It’s the best I can offer.” 

“But it’s only a guess,” objected Fred. 

“If we assume the comet itself to fit the 
theory, my hypothesis would be proved.” 

. Len was writing figures in his notebook.. 
Now he looked up. 

“Your photographic plates have shown 
nothing?” he asked. 

“Nothing but a black spot,” said Simon, 
and seemed to wait. 

“To cause the present solar disturbances, 
the unknown body’s mass is tremendous, of 
course.” He looked for confirmation. 


Simon leaned back until his feet left the 
floor, and nodded. “Yes?” 

“And still you can’t see it?” . 

“Yes.” 

“The logical explanation is — let’s see — the 
body’s mass would be somewhere in the 
neighborhood of twenty-five million times 
that of the sun.” 

“Go on,” said Simon, pleased over some- 
thing. 

“This doesn’t mean it’s that much larger 
than the sun, or any larger^-or even as large. 
It may be incredibly dense.” 

“Quite right, my boy.” 

■ “Such a mass would be roughly some fifty 
decillion tons — five times ten to the thirty- 
fourth power.” For some reason Len Niles 
had trouble getting his breath. “And the 
mass of the entire universe has been esti- 
mated at one quintillion decillion tons — ten 
to the fifty-first power. Therefore — there- 
fore this body — this dwarf star — or planet — 
would contain two-thirds of the mass of the 
entire universe!” 

“Very good,” said Simon, and at his tense 
tone both Fred and Avis leaned forward a 
little. 

“Then,” Len Niles said doggedly — seeming 
to doubt his figures but not willing to back 
down — “the mass of this body would be so 
great that its critical velocity would be 
around two hundred thousand miles a sec- 
ond, and” — he drew a deep breath — “light 
itself would not have sufficient speed to 
leave the planet’s surface!” 

The hum from Ben’s machine rose to a 
high, weird note — almost a scream. Simon 
glanced toward it and satisfaction came into 
his eyes. His feet came down to touch the 
floor. ' ' . 

“Quite right.” His voice turned grave. 
“It could emit no lighu whatever. That is 
why we cannot see it now.” 


CHAPTER VI 

A Spy 

M IS face tense with interest, Fred had 
sunk low in his chair, but Avis sat 
forward, her brown eyes wide, watching first 
Len Niles, then her father. 

“Of course, if we were closer, we might 
be able to see, because undoubtedly the 
gravitational effect would be the same, as 
that on a rocketship,” said Simon. “If a 
rocket is fired from earth at less than the 
speed of escape, it goes up a short distance 


IRON 

— depending on its initial velocity, but it 
loses speed and eventually falls back.” 

“But if we were close enough to see it — ” 
said Avis, and stopped. 

“Sure,” said Fred. “We’d be drawn into 
the planet at terminal velocity, faster than 
the speed of light.” 

Len Niles turned to Simon. “Is there any- 
thing we can do from the Earth itself?” 

“No-o, not from Earth.” 

“But maybe the Glassmen themselves are 
preparing to offset the influence of this — 
this — ” .said Avis. 

“Call it Planet G,” suggested her father. 
“It isn’t a star, because it is not luminous. 
According to my theory, it isn’t a true 
planet, either, but its volume is small and 
it is opaque.” 

“Planet G, then,” said Avis. 

“No, I think the Glassmen are not scien- 
tifically capable. If they were, they would 
have done something about it already.” 

“But I’m sure that you have some ideas,” 
said Len. 

The high scream of Ben’s machine turned 
to a deep, fast, powerful throbbing. Simon 
leaned back in the big chair and placed his 
fingertips together. 

“Only,” he said as if he were very tired, 
“the obvious one of escape.” 

“Escape! But how?” 

“Yes, I know. You wouldn’t want to 
leave the Glassmen helpless, even after what 
they’ve done to us, and I don’t blame you. 
But it’s the only answer I know. Ever since 
I got in here from the Outside, I’ve been 
working on space-flight, as you know. We 
had Dr. Beckwith’s original formula for the 
use of U-Two-thirty-five in a true atomic- 
power engine. A little at a time I smuggled 
parts of his wrecked ship underground. 
When we first discovered the danger of 
Planet G, I thought you could persuade the 
Glassmen to let us build ships to take all 
inhabitants of the City to some other part 
of the universe.” 

“But that isn’t feasible,” said Len. 

“I’m afraid not. The first ship is ready 
for flight, but it is small, and there is not 
enough time to build even one more.” 

“How much time do we have?” asked 
Avis anxiously. 

“Provided the present rate of acceleration 
does not increase, I would say six weeks at 
the most,” Simon said carefully. “Within 
that length of time the earth will enter a 
period of tremendous disturbances — earth- 
quakes, storms, lightning, submarine vol- 
canoes, tidal waves. The City is certain to 
be destroyed.” 


MEN 27 

Len Niles took out the package of hydro- 
pones, looked at them, put them back in his 
pocket. 

“If the ship is used for interplanetary 
travel, there are a great many other problems 
to be met,” he said slowly. 

“Yes,” said Simon. “A force to combat 
gravity was obviously necessary and I worked 
on that while Ben went ahead with the de- 
velopment of an atomic motor. To some ex- 
tent I was successful. Save for the scarcity 
of the element I am using to power the 
method — ” 

“Sh!” Len Niles’ sibilant warning was 
sharp, low. “Watch that viewing-sphere!” 
he whispered. 

The door through which they had come 
was opening slowly. They had a vague 
glimpse of a Glassman’s green face, and Len 
leaped up. But they were blinded by a sud- 
den intense light. Len stumbled toward the 
door, trying to feel his way, but a Glassman’s 
voice stopped him. 

“I’ve found it!” he said crackingly. “An 
entire underground workshop! It’s taken 
me a long time, but I’ve got you now. It’s 
a plot against the Regulating Body! You’ll 
all be sent Outside for this!” 

“If I could only see!” cried Len. 

An explosion sounded in his ear. The cen- 
ter of the brilliant light dropped to the floor 
and suddenly went out entirely. The room 
seemed black as the night Outside. 

Len did not move, for he was still blind. 

“What happened?” he asked, bewildered. 

Simon’s voice came to him, old and weary, 
but steady. 

“I killed him,” he said. “With a glass pis- 
tol like those Hart Niles first made to pro- 
tect the City from the Cros. I’ve kept it for 
something like this.” 

LOWLY Len Niles breathed a great 
sigh of relief. “How could you see?” 
he asked. “I could hardly tell from which 
direction the light came?” 

“I have experimented many years with 
powerful radiations,” said Simon. “And so — 
I am almost blind.” 

“Blind!” 

“I can discern shapes, outlines. I could 
distinguish him well enough to — shoot.” 

They were silent for a moment. 

“Who is it?” asked Avis. “Who— got 
killed?” 

“We’ll find out. I am beginning to see 
now,” said Len Niles. 

But Fred’s sight returned first. He looked 
at the face of the fallen Glassman and then 
came back to them. 



28 STARTLING STORIES 


“We’re in for it now,” he said glumly. 
“He’s deader than a prehistoric steer.” 

“Who is it?” insisted Avis. 

“Who do you suppose?” Fred muttered. 
“Jebek, of course. The brother of Kardox.” 

Len Niles could not repress an exclama- 
tion of dismay. Avis clutched his arm. 

“What can we do, Len ?” she asked. 

He could see her clearly now. Her brown 
eyes were round with fear. He controlled 
'his own agitation quickly. 

“We couldn’t have let him live,” he said. 

“No matter what the consequences, if he 
had gone out of here alive, it would have 
been the end of the laboratory and all the 
Nilesmen,” Fred added. “But we’re sunk 
anyway. Now he will be missing, and every- 
body around the Big Arena saw him having 
an argument with Len. They will be after 
Len first. When Mirl hears about Jebek, he 
will tell what he knows, and there will be 
an investigation that will lead eventually to 
this laboratory. Then we’ll all go Outside. 
We won’t any of us have a chance.” 

Len Niles put a hand on Jebek’s chest. 

“He’s dead, all right. Those primordial 
pistols are vicious little things.” 

Simon was holding his hands over his eyes. 

“I never killed a man before,” he said brok- 
enly, “but I made up my mind long ago not 
to hesitate if it became necessary.” 

“Let’s dispose of the body.” Len was busi- 
nesslike. “We could burn it.” 

“Why not take it Outside?” asked Avis. 
“If he is found by a Wheel, they couldn’t 
tell exactly what happened to him.” 

“Right,” said Len Niles. “If they find him 
Outside, it would at least delay things. And 
even if they don’t find him, we’ll have maybe 
a week. Mirl might stay quiet that long. 
He’s really not the kind to tell on us.” 

“You hope,” said Fred. 

Len Niles looked at him steadily. “You 
are not the most optimistic person in the 
City,” he said. 

They arranged a sling of glass rope. Len 
and Fred tied the body so they could carry 
it between them. “This isn’t a pleasant job,” 
said Len. 

Fred scowled. “Don’t forget that I don’t 
do this every day, either,” he muttered. 

They got the body into the huge, sloping 
air-inlet pipe. Len walked up the ladder-like 
glass steps on the left side, with Fred on the 
right. Between them were a pair of steel 
rails which followed the pipe along the floor. 
Avis insisted on going with them. 

Jebek’s body was heavy. When they finally 
pushed aside the screen at the end of the in- 
let-tube, all of them were breathing heavily; 


Here the cold of the vast desert chilled them 
rapidly. Away from the sun-lights of the 
City, which provided light and warmth as 
well as the essential catalyst for conversion 
of silicon into energy, their brief glastic gar- 
ments did not give much protection. 

Avis shivered. 

“Why is this planet so hostile?” she said. 
“If we could live Outside, we could leave all 
this trouble with the Glassmen?” 

Len Niles pointed to the sky. 

“Up yonder somewhere,” he said, “is Planet 
G, a million times more dangerous than the 
Glassmen.” He looked behind, over the great 
curving black dome of the City. “An elec- 
trical storm is coming. We’ll have to move 
fast.” 

“I’ll go with you,” said Fred. 

“No. It’s better for you to wait here. I 
may need help. The Wheels will be on the 
prowl, sensing this storm and hoping for 
moisture. I don’t think it will take long.” 

/ 

H E put Jebek’s body over his shoulders 
and carried it through the sand two 
hundred yards to one side of the tube and 
away from the City’s dome. He laid it in the 
sand and straightened up, looked around. 
Then he bent down and removed the ropes. 
Still he didn’t hear the sibilant motion of a 
heavy animal rolling on sand. He started 
out from the body, made a wide circle, and 
came back toward it. The wind was rising. 
Thunderbolts rolled and crackled beyond 
the dome. There might even be a few drops 
of water. What was it his grandfather had 
said they used to call that on Earth? 

Then a faint cry came to his ears. 

“Len, run!” It was the voice of Avis. She 
appeared to be almost frantic with fear. 

" He whirled around in the sand. There, 
rolling up behind him, a hundred feet away, 
was the huge bulk of a Wheel, moving 
swiftly, sensing the moisture in his body. 
He spent a crucial second locating the corpse 
of Jebek, and then he ran. Ran straight 
toward the body, hearing now the swift flat- 
tening of the sand as the Wheel picked up 
speed. 

He stumbled over the body, landed on his 
shoulders, rolled to his feet, and swerved to- 
ward the tube. He reached Avis and Fred. 
“It almost got you, Len,” Avis whispered 
unsteadily. 

He looked back. The Wheel was coming 
to a ponderous stop. It reversed its motion 
and went back. A lightning-flash showed its 
great bulk settling, to absorb the last drop of 
moisture from Jebek’s body. 

Len Niles drew a deep breath. 



29 


IRON MEN 


“Let’s get back,” he said. “The wind will 
cover our tracks.” 

Presently they came out under one of the 
fixers. 

“Did you run into Jebek?” the superin- 
tendent asked them. 

“Yes,” said Len. 

“He’s been down here a great deal lately. 
I couldn’t stop him.” 

Len Niles looked about at their anxious 
faces. 

“Jebek won’t bother you any more,” he 
said, and went across the floor. 

The elevator man looked at them curiously. 

“A courier from Administration was just 
down here looking for Jebek,” he said. 
“Have you seen him?” 

“He isn’t in the fixer-room,” Len Niles an- 
swered. 


CHAPTER VII 
Glassman Missing 


T HE next day Len Niles left home early. 

He stopped at the Yellow Dome and 
went into the office of Aldo, a tall, slender 
man, garbed in the yellow tunic of Histori- 
cal Research. 

“I’m glad to see you, Len,” Aldo said, 
with a faint rustling of his facial muscles. 

“I suppose you know the rumor that is 
going around,” Len Niles said casually. 

Aldo’s green lips tightened a little. “Yes, 
I’m afraid I do.” 

“We Nilesmen don’t get much direct in- 
formation,” said Len. “I wonder if you 
can tell me what it is all about.” 

Aldo was thoughtful. “I don’t know why 
Kar — the Regulating Body — withholds such 
information, but as yet there is no absolute 
ban on giving it out.” 

“What are the symptoms?” 

Aldo closed a thin-leafed glass book and 
returned it to its shelf. 

“The earth’s orbit,” he said, “is becoming 
highly erratic. Just now we are about a 
month from aphelion, when our distance 
from the sun should be some ninety-four 
million, four hundred thousand miles — but 
instead, Earth already is ninety-six million 
miles from the Sun.” He faced Len 
squarely. “We can’t tell what will happen. 
Will Earth reach an aphelion point and 
from there resume some sort of orbit around 
the sun, or” — he clenched his hands — “will 
it shoot off at an ever-straightening tangent 
and leave forever the influence of the sun?” 


His green face was white. 

Len Niles drew his shoulders together. 
It seemed cold in the room. The danger, 
stated in terms of miles and days, was a 
shock. Apparently Simon had wanted to 
spare them. 

“There has been no announcement from 
the Astronomical Dome?” Len said finally. 

“No, of course not. They are concerned 
with facts only — not the results. But of 
course Kardox has known. He has known, 
even more, too.” 

“More!” Len sat straighter. He didn’t 
need to pretend astonishment now. 

“Pluto,” the Glassman said, “is almost in 
line with the Sun and Earth — and has been 
for eight weeks. Do you realize what this 
means?” 

Len Niles shook his head as if to clear 
his vision. 

“Yes,” he said slowly. “That means that 
Pluto is picking up terrific speed.” He 
reached for the hydropones. “One to a 
hun — ” He remembered what happened in 
Simon’s office. “One to ten that it lights,” 
he said. 

Aldo smiled, a little wan. “I’ll take it.” 

Len pressed the button. Now he knew 
why Simon hadn’t told him these things. 
Simon’s guess as to the remaining time was 
close, but he hadn’t told them the full extent 
of the danger because he didn’t know! His 
facilities for observation were too limited. 
Nevertheless he had arrived at the same 
general conclusion as the Astronomical 
Dome. The Glassmen’s observation indi- 
cated four weeks. Simon had guessed the 
danger-point at six weeks. The hydropone 
popped up and smoke curled from it. Len 
smiled tightly and gave Aldo a sando. 

“Why hasn’t the Regulating Body asked 
us to help?” 

Aldo shrugged. “They say you’ll stop us 
forever from going back to carbon, if you 
can. And of course, Len, we’d like to be 
white again. These green skins aren’t nat- 
ural.” He twisted his head and the skin 
of his neck made a faint crackling. “You 
see?” 

“Yes. But has anyone told you why I’m 
against the idea?” 

“I know. You say it isn’t safe. And you 
know more about it than anybody in the 
City.” 

Len Niles stood up. “Thanks a lot,” he 
said. “I’ve got some thinking to do.” 

He went straight to the Inorganic Lab- 
oratory. He had only three minutes to 
change clothes, and although he didn’t feel 
like hurrying, it wouldn’t do to change tac- 



STARTLING STORIES 


30 

tics at this stage of things. 

He slipped into the white glastic uniform 
and started quickly for the door. The 
chronometer showed twenty-five seconds, 
and he hurried, though the overseer frowned. 

But just outside the door he stopped. 
Three Nilesmen were coming in late, talk- 
ing excitedly. 

“Did you hear what happened?” one asked 
him. 

{ “No,” said Len, watching the overseer. 

>, “A Glassman is missing. 'Disappeared 
from the Administration Dome last night.” 

“Is that so,” said Len. “Where— how — is 
Kardox?” 

“Kardox has sent out investigators. 
They’ll probably talk to you.” 

“To me?” 

“Yes. Wasn’t Mirl a friend of yours?” 

“Mirl!” asked Len. 

“Sure. Mirl’s missing. Didn’t get home 
last night.” 

Y AN effort Len Niles concealed his 
emotion. He had almost given him- 
self away. But now Mirl was missing. 
Glowing rings of Saturn! What next? 

Len couldn’t have worked intelligently at 
anything after that. He thought of taking 
the day off, but that would have been sus- 
picious, so he went through the same mo- 
tions as the day before. 

Fred came by and stopped for a minute. 

. “What do you suppose happened to Mirl?” 
asked Len. 

Fred’s face was etched in sour lines. 

“Something like this would have to hap- 
pen now.” 

Len Niles ventured to speculate. “Mirl 
was pretty drunk last night. He might have 
forgotton to ,go home.” 

“You’re as gloomy as the under-side of 
Uranus,” said Fred. 

“If he doesn’t appear, they’ll tighten the 
restrictions so we can’t do anything.” 

“Have you forgotten what will happen 
when Jebek turns up missing?” 

“Well, no, but after all, they may find 
Jebek’s body Outside.” 

“His body?” Fred laughed shortly. “You 
mean a pattern of crushed bone in the sand.” 

“They’d find his identification disk. Not 
even a Wheel would take that. Say” — Len’s 
eyes lighted up — “do you suppose it’s really 
Jebek who is missing?” 

Fred was sour. “He’s missing, all right.” 

“I mean — ” 

Fred shook his dark head warningly. 

“We’d better get to work. The supervisor 
is watching us.” 


But certainly there was little done on the 
eighth' shift that day. Nilesmen gathered 
by twos and threes and talked in low voices. 
They were silent when Glassmen went by. 

Soon the hour, and a half was over. For 
once Len did not clean up his bench. The 
soft whistling of the audio came just before 
quitting-time. All the Nilesmen in the big 
laboratory hurried to the end of the room. 

“For the first time in two hundred years,” 
said a crackling voice, “a murder has been 
committed in the City of Glass. The body 
of Mirl, Number Seven-eight-oh-nine, was 
found today in a magnetic car. He had 
been dead for some time, and marks on his 
neck indicated that he had been suffocated 
by pressure of human fingers. The Regu- 
lator promises that the man who took his 
life will be found and punished immediately.” 

Len groaned. He and Fred went to the 
locker-room. 

“Murdered!” said Len slowly. 

“The only good thing about it,” Fred 
pointed out, “is that he had been dead for 
some time. Maybe he didn’t get a chance 
to tell. Do you suppose — I wonder who did 
it?” 

Then they met Walter, coming in for the 
ninth shift. 

“Did you hear?” said Len. “Mirl is dead.” 

He watched Walter’s face. The young 
features, etched in top-deep lines, did not 
show surprise. Instead, into his eyes for 
the first time came fear. 

“Do you think they will find out who 
killed him?” he asked. 

For a moment the two men stood there,' 
looking at Walter in consternation. Then 
without answering the boy’s question, they 
turned away and hurried off to change back 
into their street clothes. 

After dressing, Len and Fred left the 
laboratory together. Neither one spoke of 
the guilt in Walter’s eyes. 

Len turned off at his door. 

“See you tomorrow.” 

Some hours later, when the sun no longer 
burned down on the battery-bricks that made 
up the huge dome over the City, Len Niles 
went out again. Two green-tunicked Glass- 
men were standing at the entrance of the 
Black Dome. Len had intended to go in 
for a few minutes, but at sight of the guards 
he went on by. A guard was stationed in 
the fixer-room, too, but Len had no trouble 
getting away from him. 

Soon he was again going through that 
last door of the tunnel. Behind him ap- 
peared gray-haired old Simon. 

Anxiously Len told him the complete, 




IRON 

detailed story of what was happening above. 

“We’ll have to move fast, if we are to have 
any chance at all of saving the Earth,” he 
urged. 

“I am just about ready,” Simon said slowly. 
“I spent most of the night checking my 
previous observations.” 

“I talked to Aldo,” said Len Niles. “He 
says the Astronomical Dome reports aphel- 
ion point is already exceeded.” 

IMON wagged his head slowly. “I was 
afraid of that. It is difficult to make 
observations from our place in the desert. 
Y esterday morning the wind had blown away 
most of the sand, so we all went up last night 
to cover it again. Fortunately the Glassmen 
didn’t go outside yesterday.” 

“It’s strange they haven’t discovered it in 
the last twenty years.” 

“No, not so. The last two generations have 
almost ceased exploring and the rocket-sleds 
aren’t sandworthy any more, nor have they 
made new energy-batteries, so they can’t go 
far from the City, and then only in emer- 
gency.” 

Len nodded. “Is there any change in 
the — ” He left it unfinished. 

Simon led him into the office and sat in the 
big chair. 

“The drift continues to accelerate. The 
speed of the system as a whole now has 
reached something like eighty miles a second, 
from a normal rate of twelve miles a sec- 
ond.” 

Len’s lips, tightened. He held out the hy- 
dropones. Simon reached, then drew back. 

“A little bet?” he asked, and smiled. 

Len made a face. “Not today,” he said, 
“I’ve got to think about that.” 

Simon leaned back until his feet left the 
nitrate floor. “The ship is about ready,” he 
said, “but for fuel. We shall have to have 
about twenty pounds of uranium-two-thirty- 
five.” He paused. 

Len Niles was thoughtful for a moment. 
“And the only place to get it is in the vault 
at the Administration Dome,” he said finally. 

“I’m afraid so.” 

Len made no comment. 

“Do you think -it’s — it’s — too dangerous?” 
Simon faltered. 

“I’ll get the uranium,” said Len. “I don’t 
know how, but I’ll do it.” He got up to 
leave. “What day will the take-off be ?” 

Simon’s wrinkled face tightened. “When 
you come back with the uranium, I’ll have 
the plans worked out.” 

Len looked at him. He knew then that 
Simon had everything ready, that he needed 


MEN 31 

only the fuel, so he dropped the subject. 
“Did you see the remains of Jebek?” 

Simon regarded the hydropone. “Yes,” he 
said. 

“I suppose you heard about Mirl over the 
audio.” . 

Simon shook his head. 

Len told him about Mirl but said nothing 
of their suspicion of Walter. He shook hands 
with Simon, a grim acknowledgment of the 
danger he would run in trying to steal half 
of the City’s extremely precious store of 
uranium. 

He hurried up the tunnel. He was care- 
ful to come out from under the same ma- 
chine. He didn’t want that sharp-eyed guard 
to see him. 

“Well!” said a crackling voice. “So there 
you are! I looked for you but I couldn’t 
see you.” There was accusation in the guard’s 
words. 

“Trouble with the air-pump,” said Len, 
breathing hard. “I had to crawl inside.” 

The guard didn’t answer. Len left, and 
back on the surface, went straight to the 
apartment. His mother was watching the 
televisual globe. She pointed to it without 
a word. 

Len Niles sat down hard. He watched. 
And listened. 

Walter was in the center of the globe, 
young, impatient Walter, in his orange tunic 
and shaking his dark hair vigorously as he 
addressed a meeting of mixed Nilesmen and 
Glassmen and Pales in the auditorium of the 
Blue Dome. From the sweat on Walter’s 
face, he must have been talking for some 
time. 

“ — So, fellow-residents of the City of Glass, 
as I have pointed out, it is a traditional and 
legal right that Nilesmen have a representa- 
tive on the Regulating Body. A right earned 
by Hart Niles when he saved the City from 
extinction. I also have pointed out that 
Nilesmen have been denied that right since 
my father Simon was sent Outside. It isn’t 
fair or just that we three hundred have no 
one to speak for us. We demand that the 
Regulating Body at once order an election 
to be held for the purpose of placing a Niles- 
man on that body ! ” . 

He threw his head back dramatically. 
Cheers came from the group. Then came 
the voice of the intersperser. 

“You have just listened to an address by 
Walter Niles, No. N-Four-one-two, who — ” 

Len Niles turned it off. 

“‘Oh, gosh!” he groaned. “We never 
have meteorites but that we don’t have 
comets!” 



STARTLING STORIES 


32 

CHAPTER VIII 
Election 


W ORRIED by recent events, Len 
walked through the City that eve- 
ning. Doors opened and closed noiselessly. 
Shoe-heels and soles, with their special 
composition, made no sound on the walks. 
vThere were never loud voices, and the throb- 
bing and whirring of the big fixers below 
was lost before it reached the surface. The 
only sound in all the City was the soft 
sucking of the magnetic cars as they floated 
swiftly above the streets. 

Len Niles tried to imagine the world that 
Hart Niles had told about, of clanging ma- 
chines, pounding metal, vehicles traveling 
independently in any direction, busy people, 
hurrying, hurrying, always hurrying, regard- 
less of the noise they made. 

Now it came to him that tonight there 
was a difference in the 'City itself. It was 
hardly a difference of sound, but rather of 
intentness. Glassmen, Pales, and Nilesmen 
all seemed to be going somewhere with a 
purpose. 

Len passed the Golden Dome of Admin- 
istration and kept walking. He wouldn’t 
have a chance to get away with the uranium 
now. He turned this problem over in his 
mind before he went home. 

He didn’t sleep well that night. He 
dreamed that a Wheel was settling its twenty 
tons over him. He woke up , fighting 
furiously, and stayed awake for a long time. 
His mother called him about noon. 

“Over the telaudio this morning an elec- 
tion was proclaimed to choose a Nilesman on 
the . Regulating Body,” she said anxiously. 
Len yawned and tried to rub his eyes open. 
“I think that means more trouble, Len,” 
his mother said quietly. “Whoever is elected 
will be maneuvered into taking responsibil- 
ity for oppression of the Nilesmen.” 

Len sat on the edge of the bed. 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “But 
what more can they do? There isn’t time, 
anyway.” 

“Len, you are young and I am not,” said 
the woman'. “I have heard Hart Niles tell 
of unbelievable oppressions — refusal to allow 
food to hundreds of persons, separation of 
families, torture and killing. We have 
nothing like that here. But we might have.” 

Len got up and stretched his long body. 
“I guess you’re right. It could be worse. 
It might be that tomorrow we shall be 


fighting to maintain conditions as they are 
now.” His strong hands fell on her shoul- 
ders. “Anyway, we’re in it too deep at this 
time to quit. How is it, when there is such 
a tremendous common danger, we can bicker 
over things that aren’t important?” 

“Human nature doesn’t seem to have 
changed much, Len.” She hugged him 
briefly. “I’ll get the breakfast table ready.” 
She went out. It was amazing, Len thought. 
The dread, in her eyes, the catch in her 
voice, and yet — she walked as steadily as 
he did. 

In the Inorganic Laboratory, a group of 
Nilesmen, already dressed in white aprons, 
was gathered around the telaudio when Len 
got there. 

“The election will be at sixteen hundred 
tonight,” said one of them to Len, and 
turned to the others. “Three suns for Len 
Niles, our new Regulator!” 

Len smiled. “Let’s wait till after election,” 
he said. 

Len left hurriedly. Fred was coming out 
of the locker-room. 

“New regulations posted,” he said. 
“They’re bearing down already.” 

Len started to answer, but a green-skinned 
Glassman, a very old man, came by slowly, 
his stiff joints creaking and rustling at every 
step. 

“He’s here!” Len whispered. “What for?” 

They listened to him walk slowly away. 
They turned and watched. His head was 
moving so that his vision took in the entire 
room. Those huge, gray-green pupils, de- 
veloped by generations of careful selection 
and treatment, could see infra-red rays in- 
visible to normal eyes. Bigyz’ presence was 
ominous in itself. 

They watched him for a moment, and then 
Len made a suggestion. 

“Let’s read the new rules.” 

The lines of black script, with a light some- 
where behind them, stood out on a sheet of 
frosted glass on the bulletin board: 

EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY 

1. Laboratory hours are reduced to one 
hour per day, four days per week. 

2. The rest period is reduced to ten min- 
utes. 

3. Banishment to the Outside will be or- 
dered for any one found in possession of books 
or any reading material. The same punish- 
ment will be ordered for any one who thinks 
about a new problem. 

KARDOX, No. 1. 

T HE Nilesmen, a dozen of them by now, 
muttered all around Len. 

“One hour a day!” Len shook his head 



IRON 

wearily. “How can they know what we 
think?” “How do we know they can tell at 
all?” “I don't believe they can. It’s a bluff.” 

Two Glassmen walked by in gray tunics. 
The Nilesmen were silent until they had 
passed. 

“They’re from the Mental Research Dome,” 
somebody whispered. “Do you think they’re 
helping Bigyz?” 

Nobody thought. What good would it do? 
Len voiced their sentiments. 

“If they can read minds, we are all 
doomed.” 

The one hour of work was a long one. 
They were, for once, glad to leave, with the 
two inspectors from Mental Research roam- 
ing the laboratory, and the ancient Bigyz 
creaking slowly up and down the room say- 
ing nothing, just watching, and listening. 

“I wonder why they haven’t announced 
Jebek’s disappearance,” Fred came over once 
and whispered. 

Len Niles looked around before he an- 
swered. 

“I think they want to find out first what 
happened to him,” he said, carefully adjust- . 
ing the burner under a Crookes tube. He 
bent low to watch a purple tint rise from the 
bottom of the tube. “He wasn’t very depend- 
able, you know, and if they announce he is 
missing now, after Mirl’s death, and then 
later he shows up full of Sizzling Comets, it 
would ridicule Kardox.” He turned out the 
burner. 

They voted at the Yellow Dome. Aldo 
was there at the televoter. 

A stream of Glassmen and Pales and a few 
Nilesmen were filing by the televoter. Each 
wrote a name on the screen. Then it flashed 
off and was recorded and sent to the Golden 
Dome by telaudio. 

Avis came in, her warm eyes shining at 
Len, her pink shoe-heels glowing as she 
walked, and Len couldn’t help seeing her 
write “Len Niles” in a firm hand. She came 
over and sat down with them. 

As the minute-hand reached seventeen 
hundred, the lights on the televoter went out. 
Fifty seconds later the telaudio glowed. 

“Results of tonight’s election,” said the in- 
tersperser. “Two thousand, six hundred and 
ninety-two votes for Len Niles, one vote for” 
— he paused — “one vote for Simon. . . 
Then he went on. “As of nineteen hundred 
tonight, Len Niles will be officially a member 
of the Regulating Body.” 

Avis gasped. “You!” She turned to Len 
Niles. “You voted for father!” 

“A protest,” Len said. 

Avis’ eyes were shining. “You were elect- 


MEN 33 

ed unanimously! The Nilesmen have faith 
in you, Len. And so do the Glassmen. All 
who voted, voted for you!” 

But Len Niles was glum. “What can I 
do for the Nilesmen now?” 

“You can try,” she said confidently, “and I 
know you can help.” 

The three started for home. Len felt 
heavy 1 . He, perhaps better than most, real- 
ized how difficult it would be to improve 
conditions for the Nilesmen. 

With time, many things might be done 
for improvement. Eventually Len could get 
the Niles scientists to work on sun-power, 
and once that could be utilized for fuel, the 
changeover to a carbon economy would 
be simple. By that time, too, the problems 
of iron- could be solved, if they were allowed 
freedom in working them out. 

Len suddenly shook his head and looked 
to see where they were. He’d been dream- 
ing. Only one thing now was important — 
to save the Earth. 

“There’s a meeting in the Blue Dome,” 
Avis said, touching his arm. “Let’s listen.” 

Len frowned. “Why now?” he wondered. 
“The election is all over.” 

They went inside. In the glass cubicle 
over the center of the auditorium was Wal- 
ter, making a fiery speech. The auditorium 
was crowded, and Walter turned gradually 
as on a pivot, addressing them all, one sec- 
tion at a time. 

Avis gasped and Fred scowled and then 
sighed. But Len Niles grinned. 

“You’ll have to admit the kid is good,” he 
said. 

“ — and now we want the rights inherent 
in us as a race of human beings!” Walter 
shouted. “We want longer hours, less credit, 
freedom to work and to read and to think 
as we wish. The freedom that you as Glass- 
men all have and enjoy. This is your fight, 
too. They are restricting us now. They’ll 
restrict you next. We’ve got a member on 
the Regulating Body now, a member who 
will fight! When he fights, remember that 
he is fighting, not for Nilesmen alone, but for 
Glassmen and for Pales — for all the human 
race.” 

A ROAR of approval. Glassmen and 
Nilesmen alike stood up and waved and 
cheered. “Len Niles is our man!” they cried. 
“Let’s sneak out,” said Len. 

“Len!” Avis turned to him. “Did you see 
how they’re behind you!” 

“So what?” growled Fred. 

Len shook his head. “For once, Fred is 
right. This demonstration is wasted energy.” 



STARTLING STORIES 


They approached the Golden Dome. Len 
stared at its wide entrance. 

“What’s the time, Fred?” he asked. 

Fred looked. “Ninety-five minutes past 
eighteen hundred,” he said. “In another five 
minutes you will be a Regulator.” 

“In five minutes, if I can put it over, we 
shall have accomplished the only thing pos- 
sible to save the human race from destruc- 
tion,” Len answered. “Listen carefully. You 
two walk slowly around the block and then 
. enter the Dome and go to the elevator. You 
should meet me somewhere along the hall. 
I shall have twenty pounds of uranium with 
me. Avis, I’m going to give it to you.” 

“Twenty pounds ! I can’t hide that much.” 

“Twenty pounds of uranium is no more 
than the size of your clenched hand — and 
that is small,” said Len. “You can put it in 
your hand-bag. We’ll all go down together. 
If they should stop me, the future existence 
of humanity is in your bag”— abruptly he 
spoke in a lighter tone — “along with !the 
things that make you pretty and make you 
smell so good.” He looked at her admiringly 
for an instant and his voice became business- 
like again. “Get that uranium to Simon, re- 
gardless of the cost.” 

A golden-skinned Glasswoman and a Glass- 
man came along the sidewalk. The Glass- 
woman spoke to her companion, a little en- 
viously. 

“That’s the man who lost eight hundred 
sandoes the other night.” 

Len Niles sighed as they passed. “Such is 
fame,” he said. 

1 Fred and Avis started off, Avis’ pink heels 
flashing rapidly as she walked. Len went 
straight to the big golden doors. Inside, he 
turned to the left and descended some nar- 
row stairs. A 'guard stopped him but nodded 
when he saw it was Len Niles. A moment 
later Len was in the indestructible glass 
vault. Two green-tunicked guards con- 
fronted him. 

“Len Niles,” he called out sharply. “For 
twenty pounds of uranium for the fixers.” 

The older guard stared at him a moment. 

“You have an order signed by a Regula- 
tor?” he asked. 

But the other guard spoke. “He doesn’t 
need an order. It is nineteen hundred. He 
is a Regulator himself.” 

A young fellow, Len thought, eager to 
make an impression. The older man was 
cautious, and if he were alone, regardless of 
the rules, he would have confirmed the order. 
But he wouldn’t run the risk of being shown 
up before this zealous young man. If he 
should make an error and offend a Regulator, 


he might be reduced in rank and have his pay 
raised. 

A soft whistle came from the telaudio. 

“First meeting of the new Regulating 
Body will be held at the hour of twenty 
hundred tonight,” said the announcer. “Im- 
portant business will come up. All Regu- 
lators are requested to be present.” 

“All right,” the older guard said r finally. 
“Sign the register.” He wrote after Len 
Niles’ name, “Twenty libas U-two-three- 
five.” 

He was back in a moment with a small 
lead-glass container filled with a silvery- 
white metal. He handed it carefully to 
Len. 

Len Niles took the Uranium and marched 
out. He felt as if he were walking on a 
red-hot floor. Now was the dangerous time. 
As soon as the older guard could get away, 
he would call Kardox to verify the with- 
drawal. Len went up to the main corridor 
and turned to the elevator. Fred and Avis 
were walking ahead of him, Avis’ pink heels 
moving slowly. She glanced back but said 
nothing. Her brown eyes were bright in 
her white face. 

Len Niles caught up with them and 
dropped the container into her bag as she 
held it open. Fred’s face was taut! Avis 
put the bag firmly under her arm and they 
walked onto the waiting-plate. 

The elevator came up. They got in. The 
elevator dropped. They got off at the 
thirty-fifth level. A guard confronted them, 
and Len grew tense. But the guard stood 
at attention and they passed. The three 
went in among the machines. Len touched 
Avis’ arm and she darted down under the 
big intake pump. 

“Careful,” Len whispered. “Get back as 
soon as you can.” 

He and Fred, went to the superintendent’s 
cubicle. Len went back down to examine 
the compressor-shaft. It seemed hours be- 
fore he saw Avis’ pink heels coming across 
the floor. She came up to him. He looked 
at her. She nodded. They went back to 
the elevator. 

T HEY got outside without challenge. 

Len took a deep breath — the first, it 
seemed, for hours. He looked at Avis and 
her face was white. 

“It won’t be long now,” Fred was mutter- 
ing. 

“Father wants us three back there by this 
time tomorrow,” said Avis. 

“We’d better go separately, then,” said 
Len, “You first, Avis, Fred next, and I’ll 



IRON 

come last. If there is any hint of trouble, 
both of you get away as soon as you can.” 

“How about you, Len?” asked Avis softly. 

Len was grim. 

“I have plans,” he said. “I’ll be there.” 

He went back in by another door, took 
the Regulators’ elevator to the council-room 
in the very Dome itself, just under the 
black vaulted roof of the City. A guard 
stopped him outside and took him to the 
tunic-room, where he was fitted with a new 
golden funic. 

“You should get your new shoes, sir,” the 
tunicker said respectfully. “They were avail- 
able three days ago.” 

Len glanced involuntarily at the new toe- 
nail. He’d better trim that tonight — no mat- 
ter how proud he was of it. 

“I’ll get them tomorrow,” he said. 

He was ushered into the Golden Room. 
His guards stopped, and Len stopped. Be- 
fore him was a big room, in its center a 
small glass table, scarred and scratched a 
little on top. He’d never seen it before. 
That table was three hundred thousand 
years old, the City’s most priceless heritage 
— the first article made by Kasner, Number 
1 of all Glassmen, who had found the great 
nitrate bed, the only one left on Earth, and 
had located the City over it. It had been 
he who had laid the rules for the preserva- 
tion of the race. Kasner had been the man 
who originated and guided the Glassmen’s 
first steps toward the change-over to a sili- 
con economy. It was he who had looked 
ahead to ultimate exhaustion of nitrate, and 
who had redesigned the human race to alter 
its bodily functions to take advantage of the 
one all-plentiful element — silicon. 

Len Niles’ eyes lifted. Around that table 
had sat Kasner, and Magrum, and Zudat, 
and Perso, and Hart Niles, and Simon. At 
that table had been made the momentous 
decision to let Hart Niles have nitrate to 
make gunpowder for defense against the 
Cros. At that table Hart Niles had proposed 
his plan to trade nitrate to the Cros for iron 
ore, weight for weight. The history of the 
human race had passed in review across that 
scratched glass top — and now he, Len Niles, 
was to sit at it and participate in decisions 
that once again would determine whether 
or not the race would continue to exist or 
be wiped forever from the channels of time. 
Len Niles’ chest swelled with sudden emo- 
tion. 

Four men stood up around the council- 
table. Kardox, who presided, was tall, green- 
skinned, angular-faced, and middle-aged, the 
older brother of Jebek. The strain of harass- 


MEN 35 

ing weeks showed in his lean features. 
Murco was direct descendent of Magrusn. 
He was a young man, slated to be Number 
1 whenever Kardox decided to retire. An- 
cient Darum, said to be a hundred and fifty 
years old, was small, shriveled, stooped. His 
green skin appeared to be brittle with age, 
but he had a reputation of being alert of 
mind and quick of decision. Aldo, now wear- 
ing a golden tunic, stood watching Len Niles 
with kindness and hope. 

These four leaders, in golden tunics, were 
waiting for Len to advance. Kardox gripped 
his hand. 

“You will be seated in the Number Five 
position, across from Aldo,” Kardox said. 

Len Niles took the indicated place behind 
the chair. Kardox sat down. They followed 
his example. 

“You are well acquainted, Len Niles, with 
the prerogatives and procedure of the Regu- 
lating Body. We are proud to have you 
here.” 

Len Niles knew that he was sincere. This 
man, too, had the future of the race in his 
heart. His responsibility was heavy. What 
he did, right or wrong, he did sincerely. 

“Our first item,” said Kardox, turning the 
leaves of a notebook — and his voice came to 
Len Niles as from interstellar distance, and 
his words blazed like a comet through Len’s 
brain — “our first item is the trial of Walter 
Niles for the murder of Mirl, a Glassman.” 


CHAPTER IX 
Death Sentence 


AZED with surprise, Len Niles sat in 
the Number 5 chair while Kardox read ’ 
briefly, from his notes. “Walter was observed 
arguing with Mirl . . And so oh, the bare 
facts of the case. 

Dark-eyed Walter was brought in. He was 
scared now-^-scared but defiant. 'He refused 
to answer yes or no to the charge. 

Murco began to speak. 

“Is it not true that you have been arous- 
ing the people in the last several days?” he 
asked Walter. 

Instantly Len Niles was on his feet. “That 
has no bearing on this charge,” he said. “If 
arousing the people is against the Code, he 
can be tried for it. At present he is charged 
with murder.” Len spoke directly to Kar- 
dox. “One charge does not bear on the 
other. So far there is no evidence whatever 
that Walter killed Mirl.” 




36 - STARTLING STORIES 


Kardox nodded. “The point is a good one. 
You will — ” 

A soft whistle interrupted him. Kardox ' 
looked up at the indicator lights. “Bring him 
in,” he said. 

An old man appeared, his skin gritting with 
every step. He advanced and waited, his 
gray-green eyes slowly sweeping the Regu- 
lators. 

“Bigyz,” said Kardox, “let us have your 
/eporf.” 

The old man spoke creakingly. “I dusted 
a radioactive reagent on Mirl’s neck and ex- 
amined the fingerprints,” he said, and paused 
to breathe noisily. “The prints on Mirl’s 
neck are of six fingers and these coincide 
with six fingers of Walter Niles.” 

“Is this conclusive evidence?” Len asked. 

Bigyz fixed his gray-green pupils imperson- 
ally on Len Niles. 

“I may say that in the City of Glass there 
is no other person with six prints of the same 
classifications. As you know, Regulator Len, 
the fingers of Glassmen have a distinctly dif- 
ferent type of pattern that runs in diagonal 
lines instead of loops.” 

Len looked at Walter. The boy’s face was 
white under his black hair. Len saw the guilt 
and the fear in his eyes. 

Kardox spoke. “Thank you, Bigyz. Are 
there any questions? . . . Walter?” 

The boy shook his head. 

“What is the decision?” asked Kardox, 
looking up and down, at the faces of the 
Regulators. 

Darum raised his green hand and pointed 
to the Entrance of the City. So did Murco. 
So did Aldo, slowly, reluctantly. Kardox 
looked at Len whose teeth were clenched 
tightly. But finally he looked at Walter 
again, and then slowly raised his hand and 
pointed Outside. 

Kardox arose. “You will be taken Outside 
at twenty-three hundred tonight,” he said to 
Walter. . 

Walter trembled. He started to speak. He 
looked angrily at Len Niles, then suddenly 
wheeled and marched away. A messenger 
met the guards and departing prisoner at the 
door and stepped around them, came straight 
to Kardox and handed him a written mes- 
sage. 

Kardox read it and looked up, his face 
somewhat grim. “Regulator Len Niles, you 
signed a receipt for twenty pounds of urani- 
um — almost half of the City’s store — at just 
past nineteen hundred tonight. Is that true?” 

It stunned 'Len. But somehow he con- 
trolled his breath. 

“Yes,” he said clearly. 


“You stated this was to be used in the fix- 
ers.” 

“Yes.” Len’s voice was low. 

“But our report shows that an inspector 
cannot locate this uranium in the fixer- 
room. Do you care to tell us where it is?” 

Len’s voice was low. “No.” 

“I might say that return of the uranium 
would be an alleviating circumstance.” 

“I am sorry, but it cannot be returned,” 
said Len tightly. 

Kardox waited for some time before he 
answered. “Then I am compelled to put 
Regulator Len Niles on trial for the taking of 
twenty pounds of uranium. Will you defend 
yourself, Regulator Len?” 

Len shook his head. Aldo looked at him, 
puzzled. 

Kardox seemed reluctant to go on. “Regu- 
lator Len admits taking twenty pounds of 
uranium. He will not return it, and he re- 
fuses to offer an explanation. I am forced 
to ask for a decision.” 

The three Regulators and lean-visaged 
Kardox stared at Len Niles. No one voted. 
Finally Kardox spoke again. “Destruction 
or removal of the City’s vital supplies, under 
the Code, is punishable by banishment. I 
must ask a decision.” 

£^LOWLY Murco raised his green hand, 
forefinger extended, and pointed to the 
Entrance. The ancient Darum slowly fol- 
lowed his example. Kardox looked at Aldo. 

“Will you read the Code?” asked Aldo. 

“I will,” said Kardox. The guard brought 
a glass-backed book bound in gold. Kardox 
turned the thin pages. “ ‘Section Eighteen , 1 
Paragraph Four,’” he said in his crackling 
voice. “ ‘Any person who shall be found 
guilty of destroying or removing from the 
City’s use any vital material, specifically but 
not exclusively nitrate, potassium phos- 
phate, boric acid, and the sulphates of mag- 
nesium, ammonium, manganese, and iron — 
and any other material that may hereafter 
be designated as plant-food— and’ uranium, 
shall be sent Outside.’ ” Kardox looked up. 
“That is the Code, gentlemen.” 

Aldo looked beseechingly at Len Niles, 
but silently Len shook his head. Aldo’s face 
tightened. With his eyes' full on Len’s, he 
raised his hand and pointed Outside. 

“You have seen,” said Kardox to Len 
Niles. “Do you still offer no defense?” 

“I. do not,” Len said reluctantly. 

“Then,” said Kardox, “you will be sent 
Outside with Walter at twenty-three hun- 
dred.” 

So ended Len Niles’ first meeting around 



IRON 

the historic Regulators’ table. Len was cha- 
grined. One hour he’d had on the Regulat- 
ing Body I He certainly hadn’t helped his 
people much. ... 

. Since there was supposed to be no place 
to which a person might escape, Len was 
unguarded. It was assumed that a con- 
demned man would present himself at the 
Golden Dome at the hour set. 

He went straight to Fred Niles’ apartment. 
Avis met him at the door with her eyes red. 

“It was bad enough, Len, when Walter 
was banished, but for you also to be con- 
demned is ghastly!” \ 

“Don’t cry, my dear,” Len said gently. 
“Everything is in our favor.” 

Fred didn’t comment on that. He just 
scowled. “You certainly didn’t last long,” 
he said. 

“There are two -of us going Outside to- 
gether,” said Len. “It will be night. We’ll 
get through. Has Walter been here?” 

“No, he’s at the Black Dome,” said Avis. 
“Len!” She held his arm. Her hand was 
soft and warm. “You knew this when you 
voted to send Walter Outside!” 

“There was nothing else to do,” said Len. 
“If I had voted no, it would not have 
changed the result, and I would have an- 
tagonized the Regulators toward all Niles- 
men.” 

“But, Len, when I asked how you would 
get Below, you said you had plans.” 

“Well, ' yes,” Len admitted. “I knew 
they’d have me within an hour, and so — 
how about it? Are you getting ready to 
start Below?” he asked in brisk tones. 

“I’m ready,” she said simply, “I want to 
get down there and tell father so he can be 
looking for you.” 

“Good-by, then.” He kissed her quickly, 
shook hands with Fred, and left. 

At the Black Dome he found Walter in 
the Curved Light Room. 

“I just won forty thousand sandoes,” Wal- 
ter shouted. His pockets were sagging with 
uranium thousand-sando disks. “What do 
I care ?” 

“It’s time to go to the Dome,” said Len 
soberly. Walter walked unsteadily. He 
wouldn’t be of much use. 

“You voted to send me Outside,” Walter 
said thickly. . “Are you going to help take 
me?” 

“I’m going with you,” said Len. 

Walter didn’t get it. 

They were taken in charge by two armed 
guards and conducted through the streets, 
watched by a few silent Glassmen. At the 
Entrance a group of Nilesmen was waiting. 


MEN 37 

They shook hands soberly with Len and 
Walter. 

“Be calm,” Len advised them. “There’s 
still hope.” 

They mounted a rocket-sled driven by 
two Glassmen with energy-batteries whose 
terminals were clamped to their upper arms. 
These two gave receipts to the guards, 
started the sled’s activator, and swung off 
through the sand away from the City. 

“I think we won’t need to take them more 
than twenty diameters from the City,” said 
the driver to the other Glassman. “Our 
uranium supply is low, anyway.” 

T HEY were swinging to the right, which 
was good, for on that side was the 
mouth of the big air tube. The desert was 
cold and the Moon’s light was almost white. 
Len Niles soon discovered why they were 
going to the right. 

“There was a big drove of Wheels over 
this way yesterday,” said one. He looked 
back at Len and Walter. 

The sled was spitting out a blast of blue- 
green flame in the night. The glass rails 
gritted over the sand. Walter sat upright 
but kept weaving from side to side. Len 
put out a hand to steady him, and his arm 
brushed the activator control-box. An idea 
hit him. If he could move the lever down 
a very little at a time, it would make the 
difference between life and death. 

He barely touched it. There was no no- 
ticeable slackening of speed. But a moment 
later he touched it again. And then, twelve 
diameters out, again. 

The driver spoke. “We’re losing speed, 
it seems to me.” 

The other one looked at the gauges. “Yes, 
we are. That means the uranium is pretty 
low.” 

“Do you think we’d better go much 
farther?” asked the driver. 

“It wouldn’t be safe at all. We’re four- 
' teen diameters out now, anyway, and past 
the Wheels. This ought to be ample.” 

“Ample is right!” Len thought grimly. 
Seven hours’ walk from the City, without 
food or water, with no protection from the 
cold desert night but the thin clothes they 
wore. 

The sled screeched to a stop. The drivers 
hesitated, a little embarrassed. 

“Regulator Len, disembark 1” he com- 
manded. 

Len Niles got to his feet. He tugged at 
Walter, who was asleep. 

“Are we here?” Walter mumbled. “Well, 
at the very least we can show them that 



88 STARTLING STORIES 


Nilesmen know how to die without fear.” 

Both Nilesmen stood straight and silent 
as the sled turned away and started back 
toward the City. As long as the sled was in 
sight, the second Glassman guard continued 
to face them alertly. Finally it disappeared 
into a hollow and the condemned men were 
alone. Then only did Len Niles relax. He 
sighed deeply. 

“Come on, Walter,” he said. “Let’s get 
going.” 

“Oh, let’s sit here and die peacefully,” an- 
swered the youth. 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” said Len. “There’s 
a way out of this, if we’re lucky. And this 
is one time I hope we win.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“All of those who have come into the 
desert have not died,” said Len. “Your 
father, Simon, still lives — lives and works. 
We’re going to meet him.” 

“We’re what?” Walter’s mouth stayed 
open. 

Len produced his hydropones. 

“One to ten thousand it lights,” he said 
calmly. 

“You — one to -ten thousand?” Walter 
stared at him. “I’ll take it,” he said auto- 
matically. 

Len pressed the button. A hydropone 
popped up and glowed in the night. Len 
chuckled as he gave Walter a sando., “Luck 
holds,” he said. “Let’s move.” 

They started. The sand was hard-packed 
and walking came easy. They walked stead- 
ily for four hours and, as Walter’s sluggish- 
ness wore off, they made good time. Len 
estimated they were more than halfway 
back. But they must be nearing the rolling- 
ground of the Wheels. 

At the bottom of every depression he 
scanned the crest of the hill ahead against 
the night sky. Presently he saw the thing 
he was watching for— a huge black shape 
rolling along the sky-line. 

Walter ducked low, but Len Niles pulled 
him up. “That won’t help. They don’t 
smell, or see, or hear. They sense only the 
presence of moisture. But they’re not quite 
as responsive at night as in the daytime. 
All we can do is wait.” 

They. did. The Wheel lumbered on. and 
down the other side of the hill. They walked 
up warily. They crossed the thing’s path, 
a twelve-foot -wide, .four-inch-deep depres- 
sion in the hard crust of the desert. They 
went down the slope. 

“Let’s follow the valley a -while,” Len sug- 
gested. “It slants toward the City.” 

But soon the valley opened out onto a flat 


plain. The sand became softer. They 
crossed Wheel-tracks. Then a swift suck- 
ing of sand came from the left. A big cyl- 
inder loomed up, black in the night. An- 
other rolled forward from the rear. 

“Run!” yelled Len. “To the right.” 

A BRUPTLY the two Wheels were con- 
verging. Glancing back, Len saw a 
third. He ran harder. Suddenly he slowed 
down. 

“See that ahead?” he said hoarsely. 
“What?” 

“Giant fungus. If we go in there, we can 
get away from the Wheels.” 

“Let’s go.” 

“Wait.” Len glanced back and talked 
hurriedly. “Swerve under these tall, snake- 
like brown rods, weaving around.” They 
did so. 

“What are they?” asked Walter. “They 
look big.” 

“They’re forty feet long,” answered Len. 
“They contain powerful charges of static 
electricity. Their bottom parts are slim 
stems that act as insulators. If you touch 
the brown rods, they discharge big sparks.” 
“That won’t hurt us, will it?” 

“No, but keep on ducking.” Len started 
under the rods. They grew in patches so 
thick a man couldn’t go between the stems. 
The huge brown rods weaved and bent. 
Sometimes their tips almost touched the 
ground. 

“The static will jar you, but it won’t hurt 
you,” said Len. “This fungus never grows 
alone. Somewhere in the field will be a 
growth of fire-globes. Smell them?” 

■ “Smells like a Sizzling Comet to me,” said 
Walter, sniffing. 

“They’re globes as big as a house, that 
grow on slender stems. There isn’t much 
to them, like the fungus, but they contain 
an inflammable liquid that explodes when 
a spark hits them.” 

“Then what?” 

Len Niles dodged under a huge weaving 
rod; “The heat makes the other r rods whip 
around and hit more fire-globes. The whole 
area will go up in flames.” 

“What are they waiting on now?” 

“They won’t be waiting long,” said Len. 
“They are just about mature now. They 
grow to full size in about a week. Then 
the explosion sends the spores into the air 
and they float off to start a new field. Look. 
There’s a bunch over there.” 

Walter shivered. “We’d better not go 
this way.” ' 

“We have to. We can’t turn back. The 



IRON 

Wheels are waiting for us. Just be careful. 
The field probably isn’t over a mile across.” 

But the fungi grew thicker. It was a 
winding route, detouring around the beds of 
spark-rods. The two Nilesmen tried to avoid 
the areas where fire-globes grew. Presently 
it was impossible to avoid the fire-globes. 
They could only continue to walk — and hope. 
Time was short. Len knew that. The 
brown, snaky rods were almost long enough 
to hit the ground. In their writhing, one 
might touch off a fire-globe at any moment. 

“Look out!” he shouted at Walter. The 
big rod, weaving toward Walter, was light 
as a feather, but it held a powerful charge. 
The spark jumped a foot to Walter’s shoul- 
der. He shouted hoarsely and staggered. 
He fell in the sand and Len started to help 
him up. But the rod whipped away from 
Walter and then back. 

It struck a fire-globe and there was a 
blinding flash of light. Len was blown off 
his feet, but he jumped up and shouted at 
Walter. 

There was no answer. The big rods all 
around him began to writhe in the crackling 
heat. He ran in close to the base of a big 
cluster. A second globe exploded and show- 
ered burning liquid over the spot where he 
had been. There was one scream and then 


MEN 39 

no sound but the crackling of flames. 

“Walter!” 

The flames lifted for an instant and he 
saw Walter’s body in the sand, drenched 
with blazing liquid. The rolling smoke 
stung Len’s eyes, and the acrid odor burned 
his nostrils. Walter would never address 
another public meeting. 

Len darted off to the left. The blazing 
field was expanding fast, the globes explod- 
ing and shooting their spores high into the 
air, drenching area after area with the burn- 
ing liquid that started more snake-rods 
weaving. 

He ran hard from one clump to another, 
trying to stay away from the globes, manag- 
ing to keep clear of the fire. He wound his 
way through the fungus and finally he saw 
clear sky ahead. He stumbled out of the 
last clump as a fire-globe exploded and the 
whole clump went up in a flaming pyre. 

He ran from the heat until he stumbled 
flat. After a rest, he sat in the sand and 
watched. Len had no idea where he had 
come out. But as he looked across the 
huge burning field, he could see big black 
shapes on the far hill, waiting The fire 
would give him more time, because the 
Wheels would gather around. It would be 
[Turn page] 



STARTLING STORIES 


40 


burned out in half an hour, and by morning 
there would be a residue of moisture on the 
ground. The Wheels were waiting around 
for that. 

L EN searched the sky for the stars he 
had been using as a guide. After he 
had found them he took a last long look at 
the inferno that was the grave of Walter, 
and again set off across the plain toward' 
the City. 

But now he was tired, and thirst hit him 
hard. He walked heavily for a long time, 
until the sky began to lighten in the east. 
He scanned the big black dome hopefully 
for ‘some sigh of the City. He didn’t see 
any indication of it. 

He sat down. Already the desert was get- 
ting warm. In another hour it would be 
hot. 

A man wouldn’t last a full day in that 
desert without water. He wondered if he 
had much farther to go. 

And then he heard a faint shout. “Len! 
Len Niles!” 

He pushed himself up heavily with his 
hands. The voice came again. He turned 
around and there was Fred, running toward 
him. 

“Simon and I have been looking for you 
all night,” Fred said breathlessly. “You 
passed the City!” 

Len drew a deep breath and got to his 
feet. 

They reached the dome and kept close to 
the base while they went around it to the 
opposite side. Here Len at last saw the 
mouth of the air-tube. Fred lifted the screen 
and Len stumbled inside. Coming in from 
the desert, he couldn’t see in the tube. But 
soft arms encircled his neck. 

“Len!” said Avis. Next came his mother’s 
gentle voice. 

“Len, you’re burned!” 

He looked at himself. His glastic tunic 
was smoky. His arms and legs were a 
scorched red. 

“Well, I’m here,” he said. “Let’s get 
busy.” 

Simon returned from closing the grate. 
“You made it,” he said thankfully. “How 
about — Walter?” 

Len put his blistered hand on Simon’s 
shoulder. 

“We got caught in a field of giant fungus 
just as it matured,” he said gently. \ 

. Simon pressed his hands to his eyes for 
a moment, then straightened up and started 
down the ladder. 

“Come on. The ship leaves in an hour!” 


CHAPTER X 
Heavy Odds 


RIMLY they gathered around a long 
work-table in the laboratory under- 
ground. Simon sat in the big chair that 
would have held three of him, and leaned 
back until his toes left the floor. Old Ben 
was there, and the other eight workers who 
had escaped from the Outside — John, who 
had been sent out fifty years ago, the first 
Nilesman rescued by Simon — Bob, and Kurt, 
and James, and Philip, and the others. Len 
realized, with a start, that Simon was the 
last who had made his way here from the 
Outside. That had been twenty years be- 
fore. 

, “We have held a meeting,” Simon said, 
watching his fingertips. “The ten of us who 
have lived Below for these long years. We 
have decided who shall be passengers on the 
ship. Because— because for lack of supplies 
and equipment, only three may go.” 

Len leaped to his feet. “Only three!” 

Simon raised his hand. “Sit down, 1 my 
boy. We who built the ship have assumed 
the responsibility of deciding who those 
three will be. Or, rather”— he spoke care- 
fully — “the others decided. I presided. I 
say this for a reason.” He turned his al- 
most sightless eyes around the table, and 
there was no sound. 

“The decision was not easy,” said Simon. 
“There were many things . to consider — 
spirit, mental coordination, physical adapta- 
tion to strange conditions on unknown 
planets. We have only three space-suits, 
and little power to operate them. Also, 
there is barely enough power to send the 
ship to Planet G, to say nothing of return- 
ing.” 

Simon rocked a moment in his big chair. 
“It was decided that both male and female 
should be included, for the possibility that, 
if they should land on another planet, they 
might be able to perpetuate the race. The 
odds, of course,” he said, “are that none of 
the ship’s occupants will live long enough 
for that.” 

“But — ” said Len. 

Simon motioned again for silence, and 
leaned forward until his feet touched the 
floor. “The three to go are Len, Avis, and 
Fred.” 

There was a moment of stunned silence. 
Len swallowed. He could hardly believe he 
had heard aright. It seemed ghastly, fan- 



IRON 

tastic, that such a choice had been made! 

“You three will be able to handle the 
ship,” said Simon. “Through the years, as 
we made and tested equipment for this travel, 

I have made notes recorded in vision and 
sound on beralloy tape. These are care- 
fully stored in the ship itself.’* 

“Wait a minute, sir! Suppose we do 
leave in the ship. The Glassmen can’t help 
but see it, and they’ll be down here after 
the rest of you.” 

Simon smiled. “That isn’t so important, 
but I have prepared a place for retreat. By 
the time they could follow us there, they 
will be much too busy with solar affairs to 
spend time on us.” 

Len was silent. 

Simon rocked forward and got to his feet. 
“We go to the ship,” he said. 

“Not — not right away, sir?” said Len. 

“Every moment increases the danger of 
discovery,” Simon answered. 

He led them up a long tunnel cut through 
the nitrate. Presently their voices began to 
echo from far away. Simon touched a but- 
ton, and the big cavern was flooded with 
light. 

Len had known what to expect, but he 
was startled. Fred said, “hmp,” but his eyes 
were fixed on the ship before them. 

“It’s beautiful!” said Avis, her eyes shin- 
ing. 

Simon drew a deep breath. “Forty feet 
Of manganese and magnesium steel,” he said 
proudly. “For thirty years we’ve been build- 
ing her. All of us have worked night and 
day. She’s ready now. She’s a good ship — 
and she’s yours.” He stopped and said no 
more. None other offered to speak. 

In a moment he went on. “All night we’ve 
been at a very prosaic job,” he said. “We’ve 
loaded eight tons of sand as ballast. The 
ship is named “The Nilesman.” It was de- 
signed to carry up to twenty persons and 
equipment, and so we had to add something 
in place of this weight. Well, are you 
ready?” he demanded suddenly. 

“Why, sir, I — ” Len was gazing at the 
slim cigar shape in the cradle. “I — we — ” 
He turned to Avis and Fred. 

Avis’ brown eyes glowed. “I’m ready 
whenever you are, Len.” 

“Might as well get it over with,” Fred 
muttered. 

“Very good.” 

IMON waved a hand. Philip, a middle- 
aged man* though he had been Below 
longer than Simon, pulled a long lever. The 
nitrate wall ahead of the ship swung slowly 


MEN 41 

back, and before them was the air-tube. 
Philip pushed another lever. Gears ground 
heavily, and the ship moved slowly out into 
the tube. 

“Wait!” said Len. “That will cut off the 
air! The compressor will tear itself to 
pieces.” 

Simon shook his head. “The compressor 
is out of operation for today,” he said. 

Len’s mother hurried up from somewhere. 
“Here’s an unguent that will help those 
burns,” she said. 

Len grabbed her and hugged her, then 
looked up at the ship. It was moving into 
the tube, straightening around now, ponder- 
ously settling itself on the two steel rails 
laid on the floor of the tunnel. 

Simon shook hands with Len for a long 
time. 

“The controls are set,” he said. “ Y ou need 
only press the button labeled ‘Start.’ The 
takeoff is automatic. The ship will escape 
the earth’s gravitational attraction, and by 
that time you will have had time to study 
the tape and learn what next to do.” 

Len Niles stood straight and tall. “Thank 
you, sir,” he said. 

Simon shook hands with Fred and em- 
braced Avis. 

“Good luck, my children,” he said. Philip 
had swung open the oval door in the 
side of the ship. Len pressed his mother’s 
hand and climbed the little ladder and 
squeezed inside. Avis and Fred were com- 
ing. “And may you have many children,” 
said Simon. 

Len was startled. Simon acted as if he 
didn’t expect to see them again. But of 
course they’d be back if they lived. If they 
didn’t live — well, obviously, dead persons 
didn’t have children. 

Philip was closing the door behind them. 
But Len stopped him. He held out his arm 
and spoke to Simon. 

“Have one?” he said casually. “I’ll give 
you one to twenty. You can’t be lucky 
every time.” 

Simon smiled. He took the package and 
held it close to his eyes and pressed the re- 
lease. A hydropone popped up. Smoke 
curled from it for a second, and then — it 
went out. 

Len stared as if he didn’t believe it had 
happened. 

“Okay,” he said at last, and took the ni- 
trate disk. “It’ll be just as good on Planet 
G as it is here.” 

He backed inside, turned the big four- 
pronged iron plate to hold the six-inch- 
thick door against the inside pressure when 


42 STARTLING STORIES 


they got into space. He went into the nose. 
There a button was labeled “Start.” 

Len looked around. “All ready?” he asked 
tightly. 

Avis nodded. Her face was white. Fred 
was convulsively holding onto a rail. 

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he mut- 
tered. 

“We’re going, then.” Len pushed hard. 
Nothing happened for a moment. The 
telaudio at his side came on. A Glassman’s 
voice sounded. 

“—has been identified as the body of Jebek, 
brother of Kardox, Number One. Fred 
Niles is notified to place himself under 
guard, as a piece of evidence, found near 
Jebek’s body, has been identified as his.” 

“A little late,” said Len. He turned anx- 
iously to the controls. “What’s the matter 
with — oop!” 

The ship lurched forward and jerked his 
feet out from under him. He slid along the 
metal floor and brought up head-first against 
a bulkhead labeled “Oxygen Equipment.” 
With considerable effort he got to a sitting 
position. Avis was pushed back in her seat 
by the force of acceleration, and Fred was 
standing flat against a compartment-head. 

A muffled, hollow roaring beat on Len’s 
eardrums, but in an instant it changed to 
a giant throbbing. This grew faster and 
faster until it was a distant drumming that^ 
seemed about to leave them but never did. 

“I think we’re clear of the tunnel,” Len 
said unsteadily, pulling himself to his feet. 

Len was weak all over. Things had hap- 
pened so fast he’d had no chance to wonder 
what going through the air would be like, 
or whether the ship would actually fly. He 
wondered if it had reached escape velocity „ 
of seven miles per second. It must have 
reached that speed. The steady rise of the 
ship was indicated by the invisible force 
which pushed them down and toward the 
stern. Len wondered why, with so tre- 
mendous an acceleration, he was able to 
stand at all, to say nothing of retaining con- 
sciousness. That, he supposed, was Simon’s 
work. 

He had time to study the masses of banked 
dials, flashing lights, levers and knobs. This 
compartment was small, with not more than 
enough room for the three of them to move 
around. There were three flimsy-looking 
chairs, one in the bow itself, and one on 
each side before the controls. 

¥ HE gravity pull seemed to lessen a lit- 
tle. He made his way forward and sat 
in the bow. Curiously he examined the seat. 


It was made of iron. 

“Wonder why it isn’t glass,” he muttered. 

Fred felt the chair skeptically. “I’m not 
much for substitutes,” he said, “but I sup- 
pose these things will stand up.” 

Len sat down and tried it. “Feels strong 
enough. Say, here’s a quartz plate set in 
the floor. We can see the Earth!” 

Fred was looking over his shoulder. 

“So far as I can observe it’s nothing but 
sand,” he said. “Where are the mountains 
Hart Niles wrote about?” 

“They disappeared, if you remember, in 
the terrible sunspot storms of the year four 
hundred thousand,” Len reminded him, and 
examined the barometer. “Simon certainly 
was right about instruments. Our barometer 
shows nothing — no pressure.” 

“Here’s a dial that shows gravitational 
pull,” said Fred. “What does it say?” 

“Earth distance, one hundred forty-six 
miles,” Len read. He looked through the 
quartz plate. “You can see something blue 
over there, next to the land. What do you 
suppose that is?” 

“That’s water,” said Avis. “It must be 
the ocean.” 

Len frowned. “It stretches as far as you 
can see.” 

“When will we know that we are— safe?” 
asked Avis. 

“Not till we get back on Earth,” Fred 
growled. “Maybe not then.” 

Len studied the dials. “That one marked 
‘Ether Speed’ says fourteen miles a second. 
We’re all right, then. Our speed right now 
is more than enough to take us out of the 
Earth’s gravitational field.” ' 

“It’s too easy,” said Fred. 

“A good thing,” Len said. “If it were 
not for Simon’s careful preparations, we’d 
never have gotten off the ground.” 

“We’d better study those tapes that Father 
spoke about,” said Avis. 

“Where are they?” 

“Here,” said Fred. “There’s a button 
marked ‘Instructions’.” 

Len pressed it. A tiny, fast clicking, and 
then against a black bulkhead they saw the 
figure of Simon arid heard his voice. He 
was younger in that picture and not quite 
as stooped. 

“These instructions,” he said, “were 
started in the year eight hundred ninety- 
three thousand, two hundred nineteen, as 
an emergency measure. They will, we hope, 
be sufficient to enable any intelligent person 
to operate this ship.” 

- “That was thirteen years ago,” Len Niles 
whispered, 



IRON 

The picture showed Simon sitting in the 
big chair. He was heavier, and in the chair, 
didn’t seem so small. v 

“Since the flight of the ship in space will 
be largely automatic, it is hoped anyone will 
be able to start a flight into space without 
previous instruction.” 

“Simon thought of everything, didn’t he?” 
Len said. 

Then, on the screen, Simon arose and 
climbed into “The Nilesman.” After walk- 
ing to the bow, he pointed out all the in- 
struments — pressure gauge, gravity-pull in- 
dicator, activator-heat, exhaust speed, tube- 
heats, atmosphere analysis, outside temper- 
ature, and a hundred others. 

“Since you will if successful, reach strange 
planets under unpredictable conditions, any 
instrument such as an altitude indicator 
would be worthless,” said Simon, leaning 
back against the controls and facing them. 
“You must at all times consider values, such 
as the pressure in libas per square inch, and 
translate that into altitude, for instance, ac- 
cording to your knowledge of the condi- 
tions present.” 

He told them how to set the course. Len 
turned on the viewing-sphere, and saw the 
purple-black heavens before them, with 
stars brilliant as ice against velvet. He 
identified the constellation Hercules, and 
carefully operated the individual tube-keys 
until the ship was headed for the center of 
the dark mass that blotted out a great por- 
tion of the galaxy. 

Avis and Fred watched, and then they 
turned on the tape again. 

“Your food,” said Simon, again leaning 
back in the big chair — though this must have 
been some years later, for he seemed to 
have shrunk a little — “your food — falcon- 
eggs, rabbit-meat, oranges, and hydroponic 
vegetables — is all in dehydrated form and 
will last a long time. Water is in the com- 
partment so marked. Use it sparingly.” 

“I’m glad to know that we can eat,” said 
Fred. 

A GAIN the scene changed, and once 
more Simon appeared this time in a 
close-up. 

“Your weapons are the glass pistols in- 
vented by Hart Niles,” Simon went on. “You 
will find one for each passenger in the com- 
partment marked ‘Weapons,’ with one hun- 
dred rounds of ammunition for each pistol. 
It is impossible to forecast whether these 
weapons will be effective, because the 
chances are your existence on another 
planet will depend more on your wit and 


MEN ' 43 

ability to adjust yourselves than on physical 
prowess.” 

“Simon was far-seeing,” Len commented. 

He changed the tape and Simon appeared 
again, this time standing. 

“By now,” he said, “you should be sev- 
eral thousand miles out from earth. There 
is still a great deal of time to study these 
reels of tape and the equipment which they 
describe. One important item is the space- 
suit.” He held forward a bulky suit equipped 
with a big helmet. “These you will find in 
their proper compartment. They should be 
used whenever you first step out on a strange 
world. They are flexible glastic, especially 
processed and unaffected by anything but 
the fluorides. They are as perfectly insu- 
lated as possible, and equipped with small 
but efficient heating and refrigerating units. 
You will be able to endure absolute zero for 
approximately four hours, or heat up to 
twenty-one hundred degrees for two hours.” 

He lifted up one of the suits and pointed 
with his finger. In the back of the helmet 
is oxygen equipment sufficient for six hours’, 
breathing if used sparingly. Also” — he 
pointed — “there are tiny audio sets, sending 
and receiving, in the top of each helmet, for 
talking among yourselves. Their range is 
approximately five diameters under Earth 
conditions. All these are controlled by 
switches on the breast of each suit. And 
finally” — he paused and looked squarely at 
them — “there is my invention, the thought 
transmitter, which, also in the • top ' of each 
helmet, picks up the infinitesimal electronic 
waves from other brains and injects them 
into your own thought-centers, where they 
emerge as ideas easily translatable into def- 
inite words. If you should come into con- 
tact with highly intelligent beings, no doubt 
they will by some similar process under- 
stand your own thoughts.” 

He set down the suit and retired to his 
big chair. “It is this development which 
has given rise to the legend that Glassmen 
can read minds. I used it to a limited extent 
before I was banished, but the Glassmen, 
though they suspected, never discovered its 
secret.” 

“Wait!” said Len. He snapped off the 
machine. “Let’s see if it works.” 

He found the suits, detached the helmets 
and handed them out, put on one himself. 
Then he discovered the switch was on the 
breast-plate of the suit, and started to put 
that on. 

“Wait,” said Avis. “There are switches 
on the side of the helmet, too. This one 
is marked, ‘Thought Transmitter’.” She 



44 STARTLING STORIES 


pressed it. Len pressed his, and then smiled 
at Avis. 

“You are thinking how masterful I look, 
with my light hair in waves and my eyes 
shining,” he said. 

“And you are thinking that I am the 
nicest person in the world to be marooned 
with on a strange planet,” she promptly 1 an- 
swered. 

“Don’t pay any attention to me,” Fred 
growled, and Len and Avis both blushed. 
They took off the helmets, and Len again 
started the tape. 

“The anti-gravity units in your suits gave 
me the most trouble,” said Simon’s voice. 
This recording must have been recent, for 
his face was deeply lined. “Their power 
comes from a rare material prepared from 
uranium. Only a small portion of that can 
be separated into this anti-gravity substance, 
which I have called actino-uranium, and 
about which I still know very little. It was 
discovery of this substance which led to my 
banishment from the City. Later I de- 
stroyed the formulae. Actino-uranium is 
very powerful, and there is ample in each of 
three space-suits for perhaps one day’s use.” 

“He must have made this tape only this 
morning,” said Len, amazed. 

Fred broke in. “But he hasn’t said any- 
thing about the ship itself. If Planet G’s 
pull is so strong that light cannot escape 
from it, what can we do there? How can 
we land ? We wouldn’t even be able to 
communicate. There wouldn’t be any air 
waves. Even electrical impulses would be 
drawn into the ground. Suppose we did 
land safely. • Certainly we’d never be able 
to get off.” 

T HEN, like an answer from the past, 
came Simon’s voice. He must have 
paused, in making the tape, long enough for 
them to assimilate the very idea that Fred 
had voiced. 

“There is no possible chance for you to 
approach Planet G,” he said, and his voice 
was weary and slow. “You might land, but 
you would never have enough power to get 
away. And you could not live on such a 
planet when your actino-uranium’s power is 
dissipated. Such facts you must already 
have realized while I was talking. And this 
you must do, Len, and Avis, and Fred:. You 
must flee this solar system, find a new gal- 
axy, a new system and a new planet. There 
will be many inhabitable planets in the uni- 
verse of galaxies, and you must try to es- 
tablish yourselves on one. Earth and the 
City of Glass are doomed, irrevocably. You 


must forget the City of Glass, forget the 
Nilesmen — and save the race. Len Niles, 
you are the leader. I am addressing these 
instructions to you. Good-by, my son, my 
daughter. Good-by, Len Niles. The future 
of the»race is in your hands.” 

The tape flickered out. 

Len Niles listened grimly. He looked at 
Fred and Avis. Both appeared to be stunned 
by these commands. 

“Asteroids!” said Len suddenly. “What 
intrinsic value is there in the race? Suppose 
we do perpetuate the race? What about 
our families, the other Nilesmen, the twen- 
ty-three hundred Glassmen who voted for 
a Nilesman? They all have the right to a 
chance at life. And Simon and Ben and 
Philip and the others, who worked forty 
years Below? We owe them more than we 
owe the race. Idealism can go too far.” 

He was standing in the center of the tiny 
cabin like an orator. He stopped. 

“I think you’re right, Len,” Avis said so- 
berly. Fred grunted. 

“I’m in favor of going on to Planet G,” 
said Len Niles. “I don’t know what we’ll 
find there and I haven’t any idea what we 
can do, but Planet G is the cause of our 
trouble and the only way to lick the situa- 
tion is to get there and try.” 

“I’m in favor of trying,” Avis said quietly 
— a little too quietly. 

“What’s the difference?” growled Fred. 
“We’ve got the whole universe to get lost 
in. We haven’t got a chance to come out 
alive, no matter where we go. I’ll string 
along.” 

“Then we’ll hold the course,” said Len 
Niles. 

It was all too much for Avis. Len reached 
her just as she fainted. 


CHAPTER XI 
Planet G 


NE thing soon forced itself upon Len 
Niles’ attention. They had no way of 
telling time. 

According to the ether-speed indicator, 
they soon approached and far surpassed the 
speed of light. 

“But that’s impossible,” cried Avis. 

“Perhaps not,” said Len. “You will recall 
that a man named Laplace, according to 
Hart Niles’ notes, estimated the speed of 
gravitation at five hundred fifty thousand 
times the speed of light. With our anti- 


IRON 

gravity unit, it may be that we can approach 
that speed.” 

“What’s a difference of a few million 
miles, either way?” Fred demanded. 

As their reactions and their chronometer 
slowed in accordance with their speed, time 
— relative to earth — had no more meaning. 
Actually, their chronometer showed one 
hour and twenty-five minutes had elapsed 
when they entered the blacked-out area at 
the center of which they believed was 
Planet G. Somewhere in there, although it 
wasn’t visible, was the cause of their trip 
into space. But Len worried about the time. 

Suppose they had already been gone for 
several days — or even weeks. The speed 
' dial showed a marked lag. But perhaps the 
speed-dial itself wasn’t reliable under such 
conditions. Time, speed — everything now 
was relative. Possibly the Earth already 
had been destroyed by terrific storms, moun- 
tain-rending earthquakes, huge tidal-waves. 

But Len grimly went ahead with his plans. 
They would do what they could — and hope. 
They had studied and re-studied Simon’s in- 
structions, but Len always stopped the last 
reel short of Simon’s final advice. 

After they had entered the black area, all 
light disappeared except from the interior 
of the ship. They relied entirely on instru- 
ments, and especially on the gravity-pull in- 
dicator. 

“If my figures are right, the pull of Planet 
G will run something like thirty-three mil- 
lion gravities,” said Len. “That must be 
why this indicator has ten different dials. 
Certainly, with such a pull, there will be no 
atmosphere and no pressure at the surface 
of the planet. Everything will be solidified.” 

The ship took a wild lurch that threw 
them all in a heap. Len struggled to his 
feet and stabbed at the control-levers. 

“We must concentrate all anti-gravity 
power in the central tube,” he said. 

Presently the sensation of falling began 
to ease. 

“We’re over the planet now,” Len said. 
“Or under it — or something. Anyway, not 
far from the surface. I think we’re circling.” 

Avis watched the dials at her control sta- 
tion. “There seems to be a soft spot,” she 
said. “We are going at terrific speed, but 
every few seconds the needle jumps back.” 

“Then that spot is where we land,” said 
Len Niles. He had been manipulating the 
speed-controls, and the puli ' toward the bow 
of the ship showed they were slowing. 

, “Ether-speed is down to twelve thousand 
miles a second,” announced Fred. 

“I’m cutting more and keeping all avail- 


MEN 45 

able power in the anti-gravity tube,” said 
Len. 

Through the viewing-sphere he could see 
nothing, not even- the blasting white light 
from their tubes, but he could feel the drum- 
ming of the activator. 

“Get into your suits,” he ordered. “Check 
oxygen and audio units, heat and refrigera- 
tion units. Hurry. We’re going down fast, 
I don’t dare try to hold her by anti-gravity 
alone.” 1 

A moment later Fred and Avis were in 
their suits. Fred grimaced. Avis smiled at 
him and tried to push her brown hair into 
place. She said something, but Len couldn’t 
hear. He couldn’t make them hear, either, 
through the helmets. “How am I going to 
get my own suit on?” he thought. 

Instantly Avis came forward, smiling, and 
took the controls. He stared at her. Then 
he remembered. Thought-transmitter. He 
got into his suit quickly and was back. 

“I’ll take it now, my dear,” he said. 

No answer came from his audio, but some- 
where in his brain, like a clear thought, was 
something that meant, “Why does he say, 
‘My dear’?” He grinned and thought rap- 
idly. Avis blushed and stepped back. 

“Heck of a time to be courting,” came 
Fred’s thought. 

They all looked at one another and smiled. 
Then to ’work, each one concentrated on his 
part of the controls. Their coordination 
was perfect. No words needed to be spoken. 
A thought was answered by an action. 

The gravity needle rose and fell. Speed 
dropped interminably. And finally they were 
over the soft spot, with speed almost zero. 
Len inched her down. Presently came a 
bump, a grinding, and the ship was still. 
They looked at one another and Len drew 
an enormous breath. 

“We’ve got to test the air,” said Fred. 

“That won’t be necessary. There won’t 
be any air on such a planet. All we need to 
do is see that all units of our suits, espe- 
cially the repellers, are in good shape.” 

L EN had his suit on first. He helped 
Avis and checked her oxygen, then 
clumped to the air-lock. 

“I’m out first,” he said aloud. 

“Asteroids to you,” said Fred. “I’ll go 
first. You stay in the ship. Who knows 
what we’ll run into out — there?” 

“Fred’s right,” said Avis. “You should 
stay with the ship until he finds out.” 

Reluctantly Len sealed Fred in the air- 
lock. He clumped back and forth, waiting, 
waiting. Avis sat huddled in her iron chair. 



STARTLING STORIES 


Then Len jumped. A thought in the hel- 
met — Fred’s thought. “Looks all right, what 
you can see — which is nothing. It’s blacker 
than a coal-mine on Neptune, but I’m still 
alive.” , 

Len helped Avis, and then went himself. 
He climbed down from the air-lock door 
and his feet touched the surface of Planet 
G — a new world, a strange world, a danger- 
ous world. 

He felt Avis at his side, and then Fred. 
They couldn’t see even the outlines of one 
another. Len started to turn on his light. 

“I tried that,” came Fred’s thought. “No 
effect whatever. Better save it. The light- 
rays fall straight to the ground — or what- 
ever this is; We won’t be able to use the 
audio, either. Apparently the thought-wave 
transmitter is working, though.” 

“It feels cold,” said Len. “Better use your 
heaters.” 

“My soles are warm,” said. Avis. 

“I suppose the planet itself, where it is 
solid, could be warm or even hot, but an 
inch away it may be absolute zero.” 

“What shall, we do?” asked Avis. “We’ll 
be lost the instant we take a step.!’ 

“I left the direction ticker going, as Simon 
instructed. I can hear it. I think the waves 
travel through the ground and into our 
bodies as vibrations. We’ll be all right. 
Simon is a genius. Take my hands, each 
of you.” 

He couldn’t see either of them, but .he 
felt Avis’ hand on his left and Fred’s on his 
right. He knew the left pne was Avis’, be- 
cause it seemed to rely completely on him. 

They walked away from the ship. “The 
ticker’s getting fainter,” said Fred. “We’d 
better go back.” 

Avis’ thought sounded suddenly. “I can 
see!” 

Len realized then that he had heard her 
voice, faintly but certainly. 

“Some change is going on here,” Len said 
wonderingly. “I can see a little, too. It’s 
hazy, but I can see your space-suit.” 

“Maybe we’re approaching the center of 
the ‘soft spot’,” said Fred. 

Len was examining the ground. He turned 
on his light again, and now it was like look- 
ing through a dense fog. He bent close to 
the ground. “It’s like yellow ice. Probably 
solid helium "or something.” 

“What a place to live,” Fred growled. “No 
night, no day, no seasons, no weather. Cer- 
tainly nothing could live here.” 

“We are still living and we’re here,” an- 
swered Len. 

Suddenly be thought of his anti-gravity 


unit. He bent close and peered at the 
needle. 

“Still full of power, I think.”. 

Abruptly Avis dropped his hand and 
pointed. “I see a light! Aglow!” 

Len stared. “Sizzling Comets! You’re 
right! It is light!” 

“And a city!” cried Fred. 

It was a city. There were the definite out- 
lines of structures arranged in geometrical 
patterns. ( 

Avis started to run forward, but Len 
stopped her. 

“Wait a minute Cities mean living beings 
— and we don’t know what they’re like.” 

He wanted a minute to think. It was al- 
most too much to grasp. Here was Planet 
G, of unknown mass and incalculable force. 
They had landed on it but they were still 
alive. And here was buildings not made by 
nature. 

They went forward cautiously. The shim- 
mering haze lifted like fog scattered by the 
morning sun, and the city became clear and 
distinct in a soft light that had no discern- 
ible origin. The structures were of great 
weight and tremendous strength — turret 
tops, sides of smooth, heavy steel and mas- 
sive rounded corners. 

Gingerly they walked down the middle of 
an iron-paved street. There were breaks in 
the smooth walls that indicated doors — doors 
of great width and height. But no windows. 
Nowhere Was there anything that indicated 
any opening other than the solid steel doors 
— and these all were closed. 

“What kind of place is this?” whispered 
Avis. 

T HEY turned a diagonal corner and a 
dazzling light burst upon them, forced 
them back a step. Then Len remetnbered 
one of . Simon’s instructions. He felt at 
the top of his helmet and pushed a treated 
glass into place over his eyes. The bril- 
liance of the fire was strained out, and he 
could see clearly. Fred and Avis had caught 
his thought and were doing the same thing. 

Below them, set in a square in the street, 
was a huge iron pot with an open top. It 
was filled with a liquid that burned with a 
fiery orange-red heat, and around it were a 
dozen creatures — creatures that looked like 
robots. Some were massively built, others 
were slender and graceful, but all, when 
they moved, showed ponderous, terrifying 
strength. 

They seemed to be finishing some kind 
of ceremony. One, of medium build, walked 
up iron steps to a small platform, and the 



IRON 

three Earth-people felt the shudder of the 
ground as he stepped. He moved a lever, 
and Avis gasped. 

The creatures around the red-hot kettle 
stood still, while from above the pot a 
chain rattled down. 

At the end of the chain dangled another 
creature. 

Avis screamed. 

The creature at the end of the chain 
dropped slowly into the molten liquid until 
he was out of sight, then the chain reversed 
and he came back up. 

Jhe red-hot stuff dripped from him and 
spattered back into the pot with ground- 
shaking splashes. 

“It isn’t hot enough,” came a thought. 
“Raise it a hundred degrees — and remember, 
I want at least two hours in the cyanide.” 

Abruptly two huge electrodes, one at each 
side of the pot, jumped into life. Giant 
sparks as thick as a man’s leg roared and 
crackled for a moment and then died away 
to a steady hum. 

The chain started down again. 

Avis grasped Len’s arm. 

“Len, I’m afraid,” came her uneven 
thought. “Let’s get back to the ship and 
leave!” 

But Len Niles continued to watch the 
creatures in the square. 

“We haven’t enough gravity-repellant to 
get away,” he said gravely. “Whatever there 
is here, we have to do the best we can.” 

Then a strange thought sounded in his 
brain. It had a distinct personality, not 
soft like Avis’ or harsh like Fred’s, but al- 
most — metallic. 

“If you are Ferro’s men get back to your 
low hysteresis and your magnetic permea- 
bility,” the thought resolved itself in his 
mind. 

EN shook his head and blinked his eyes 
rapidly. 

Other thoughts came in a confused jum- 
ble. “Let them come on, if they want to.” 

“Why case-harden him, anyway? We’ll 
all be dead in a million years.” 

“But he applied for it.” 

“I still think he should have been nitrided.” 

“No, the old-fashioned way is best. I 
don’t trust these new-fangled methods.” 

Then a clear, sharp thought came through 
all the rest. “Pay no attention to the in- 
truders. A million years isn’t much, but we 
can at least go on as we always have.” 

Len tried to separate the thoughts that 
continued to impinge on his mind with be- 
wildering rapidity. 


MEN 47 

At once the entire group of creatures 
straightened and looked at him. Flashes of 
quick, sharp thoughts followed. 

“Who’s out there?” 

“Ferro’s spies,” came the instant answer. 
It wasn’t put into words but as in instan- 
taneous thought. “They can’t wait for us 
to die.” 

“No,” said another. “Their thoughts are 
strange. They’re not Ferro’s men.” 

A sharp flash impinged on Len Niles’ 
brain, and the thoughts ceased instantly. 

The creatures turned simultaneously. 
They left the one immersed in the pot, and 
came toward the three Earth-people. They 
possessed three legs, round like iron bars, 
two of which were always planted on the 
ground while one moved forward. The ac- 
tion rotated so that each leg moved in turn. 
The creatures were perhaps a head taller 
than Len Niles. Avis pressed closer against 
him. 

A DEMANDING thought rang in Len’s 
mind. “Who are you?” 

Len swallowed, then answered boldlyi 
“We are three from the solar system. We 
come in peace.” 

“Where is Solarsystem ?” 

Len pointed at what should have been 
the sky. “Up there,” he thought back. 
“Many billion miles. A sun and nine plan- 
ets.” 

“Ten planets, he means,” another thought 
contradicted him. 

But a correction came instantly, one that 
made Len’s heart heavy with apprehension. 
“Only eight, now.” 

The Planet G beings had approached close 
enough, now, for Len to see them clearly. 
They appeared to be made of metal. Some 
were dull in color, some shiny, some black. 
They varied in build. The dull colored ones 
seemed to run to heaviness, while the shiny 
ones were more slender. But all were of 
the same height. Their torsos flowed 
smoothly into heads, but the heads had no 
eyes, no ears, no nose, no mouth- — only a 
single screen grid in front. Each being had 
four arms, one at each side, one in front, 
one in the back. Len could discern three 
fingers at the end of each smooth, rounded 
arm. 

There was a brief pause. Then from a 
dozen sources all at once, came thoughts, 
and all were the same. 

“They are not Ferro’s people.” 

Next a quick, authoritative mind took 
charge. 

“Call Tungsto,” he commanded. 



STARTLING STORIES 


18 


CHAPTER XII 
Immutable Death 


|j||p EALIZING that quick wit was the 
only thing which could save their lives, 
and how much depended upon him, Len Niles 
rose to the emergency. In the speech of a 
couple of seconds his mind worked harder 
than it had ever done before. At once he 
threw out a brief sharp mental message. 

“We are friends!” he shot forth. “Do 
not harm us. There’s no need. We come 
in peace.” 

“Wait where you are,” came a cumber- 
some answer. At once some kind of signal 
went out. The creatures drew back to the 
sides of the street. And presently, with pe- 
culiar alternating thud, down the center of 
the street came a medium-built creature, 
somewhat larger than the others. His highly 
polished steel legs moved with one-two-three 
precision. There had been a jumble of 
thoughts of many timbres — some high, al- 
most squeaky, as of rusty parts moving to- 
gether, others sharp and incisive. But they 
stopped abruptly as'the new one approached. 

On each side of him and to the rear 
marched a stiff-legged, black-scaled attend- 
ant. The leader stopped and his three legs 
braced themselves under him. His attendants 
also halted. There were no random thoughts 
in the transmitter. 

“I am Tungsto,” thought he of the highly 
polished exterior. The creature waited for 
an instant, perhaps catching their thoughts. 
“Com& with me.” The thought was as clear 
as spoken words. “I will take' you to my 
foundry.” 

Len Niles took Avis’ hand and looked at 
Fred. Fred was on the other side, and his 
spoken words came to Len. 

“What in the center of a cO star can we 
do if we don’t go?” 

They moved forward slowly. * Avis’ hand 
held Len’s as if she would never let go, and 
Len himself was filled with such tense excite- 
ment he found it difficult to breathe. They 
followed Tungsto past the fiery kettle, where 
the member left behind was still under the 
surface. 

“Are. you comfortable?” came a thought, 
apparently from Tungsto. 

“Quite,” was the answer that bubbled from 
the vat. 

They stopped before a steel building bigger 
than the others. The door swung open pon- 
derously, and they entered. 


“What can we do if they seize us?” said 
Avis with a shudder. 

“Let’s depend on diplomacy,” answered 
Len. 

Tungsto stopped, with all his legs under 
him like ,a massive three-legged stool. 

“I see you are not used to maintaining 
yourselves erect,” he said. • “You may recline 
on the floor if you wish. You are quite safe 
— for the present, at least.” 

Tungsto looked for all the galaxy as if he 
were fixed in place for the next ten thousand 
years. Len sat cross-legged on the floor 
against a wall, as well as he could in the 
cumbersome suit. Fred and Avis took places 
beside him. 

“Now I know your names, and, I know why 
you are here, but I doubt that we can help 
you,” said Tungsto. 

“You know what is~ happening to our 
Earth?” asked Len. 

Tungsto nodded. 

“Isn’t there anything that can be done?” 
Len persisted. 

Two of Tungsto’s fellows came in and sta- 
tioned themselves by the door, each propping 
his three legs under him in such a way that 
he couldn’t possibly fall over, and then set- 
tled with that air of ^ being fixed for cen- 
turies. 

“I’m _ afraid not,” said Tungsto’s thought. 
“I’ll tell you why. Our planet is little larger 
than your Sun. It is almost entirely iron 
except for the core, which makes up a third 
of its volume. It is, of course, very dense. 
Your earth would be a vacuum to us.” 

“A vacuum?” said Avis, puzzled. 

Tungsto’s steel head nodded. “We would 
sink right through it,” he said. “Our core is 
of the element we call” — a pause — “your 
word, I think, is nebulium. It’s Number 
Ninety-two in the third bracket of elements. 
I see you are familiar with none but the 
middle bracket. There is of course a lower 
bracket of lighter element — oh, hundreds of 
times lighter than your — yes, that’s it, lithium 
or hydrogen— and then there is the cosmic 
scale of heavier elements, of which nebulium 
is at the top, the heaviest in all the universe.” 

Len took a deep whiff of oxygen. He 
wished he could reach a hydropone, but they 
were inside his suit. 

“Nebulium,” went on Tungsto, “is Number 
Two-seventy-six in the table of elements — 
and it is the element that exerts all the force 
of gravitation.” 

“Gravitation,” muttered Fred. 

Len stared at Tungsto. “Then,” he thought 
slowly, “this element, nebulium, itself exerts 
thirty-three million gravities!” 



IRON 

T UNGSTO studied the word “gravities,” 
then he made a peculiar quick motion of 
his head that seemed to serve as a smiled 
“The force of nebulium is one gravity,” he 
said. “Your earth has such a small amount 
of nebulium that it exerts only one thirty- 
three-millionth of a gravity.” His screen grid 
turned toward them for an instant. “Nebu- 
.lium exists in minute quantities in all matter, 
but you can’t detect it because of its force. 
Some eight hundred thousand years ago, your 
scientists had what they called an electronic 
telescope — the first step in escaping your 
slavery to light. But this didn’t go very far.” 

“Now I understand,” said Len. “Nebulium 
holds light rays and so it wouldn’t be de- 
tectable in a spectroscope.” 

“Yes, and the speed of its emanations is 
another factor. Gravitation has half a mil- 
lion times the speed of light. But you were 
never able to isolate nebulium as an element 
because of its presence, in extremely minute 
quantities, in all matter everywhere. This is 
why everything with mass has an attractive 
power.” 

Len listened intently. 

“Our planet has at its core more nebulium 
than all the rest of the universe combined,” 
said Tungsto. “This planet — Which you call 
Planet G, I see — was in fact originally the 
core of the universe itself.” 

“Bright rings of Saturn!” Fred thought in 
amazement. 

Len was bewildered. On such a planet, 
I don’t see how any living thing could come 
into existence. Maybe you’re — well — me- 
chanical men.” 

Again the screen grid was turned toward 
him with the quick gesture which might have 
been interpreted as a smile. 

“We are quite — human* like yourselves, if 
you will forgive the analogy. That is, we 
are — or were — born, somewhat as all living 
being are born. We are viviparous, and our 
period of normal life is unlimited, depending 
only on our ability to preserve functions of 
the metal of which each one happens to be 
made. For we are composed basically of 
iron and steel, of many different kinds and 
grades.” 

“Iron!” exclaimed Avis. “How strange.” 
“Remember we are carbon people, and the 
Glassmen are turning toward silicon,” Len 
said thoughtfully. “Why couldn’t it be iron?” 

“Of course, many of us, in the course of 
evolution, have come to be non-ferrous,” 
thought Tungsto. “But in the beginning 
iron was the most plentiful and it existed in 
a myriad of forms, many of which are as- 
similable.” 


MEN 49 

“Just as we are made of carbon,” Len sup- 
plemented. 

Tungsto turned toward him. “Carbon? I 
don’t see how that is possible. You can’t 
assimilate . coal or graphite or pure carbon 
or — he hesitated until he caught the picture 
from Len’s mind— “or diamonds.” 

“Carbon occurs in an infinite number of 
compounds,” said Len. 

“But iron?” persisted Avis. 

“So might iron occur in forms about which 
we know nothing,” Len said. “We, too, must 
have some iron to live. So there’s no reason 
why iron can’t be uppermost instead of 
carbon.” 

“That’s true,” Tungsto agreed. “Of course 
we, also, must have small amounts of carbon, 
or our bodies wouldn’t stay together, 
wouldn’t have the properties necessary for 
life.” 

“But are you born with those — grids?” 
asked Len. 

“We are born with life, but our facilities 
for perception are installed mechanically as 
we grow up.” 

Avis’ thought came through. “What were 
you doing to the man in the big kettle?” 

Tungsto turned toward her. “He is a 
cold-rolled-steei man and he was wearing 
badly on the outer surfaces and particularly 
in the joints. He’s only a couple of hun- 
dred thousand years old, you know, and so 
he decided to be case-hardened — though 
what good it will do him I don’t know.” 
Avis looked bewildered. She started to ask 
a question, but Tungsto looked at Fred. 
“No, we don’t eat,” was his thought. “All 
activation comes from rays from the planet.” 

Len got cumbersomely to his feet. “Now,” 
he started to say, “I suppose — ” 

“You want to know about our planet — 
why it is disrupting your Solarsystem ?” said 
Tungsto. 

“Yes,” said Len. “And if anything can 
be done to stop it.” 

Tungsto shook his head sadly. “Im afraid 
nothing can be done,” he said again. 

A VIS was on her feet now, too. Im- 
pulsively Len caught her elbow to 
steady her. He didn’t feel steady himself. 
This Tungsto, the Iron Man, who knew 
more of science than Earth-people would 
learn in a million years, said nothing could 
be done. Len closed his eyes for an in- 
stant. 

“You see,” said Tungsto, “under the shell 
of the planet is a mass of complex machin- 
ery, practically— ah, automatic is your word 
—to balance gravitational forces and con- 



50 STARTLING STORIES 


trol our movements. Back in the Begin- 
ning, as the hard, solidified ball that was the 
Universe began to break up from internal 
pressures, our iron ■ ancestors, who evolved 
at about the same time, developed controls 
to prevent these outflung masses of matter 
from being drawn back and destroying the 
planet and the race. We developed also 
means of controlling the planets’ movements, 
and with this machinery the Iron Men have 
kept this planet out beyond the edge of the 
cosmos for billions of years.” 

Len’s eyes popped open. They were shin- 
ing now. 

“You mean — machinery that lasts — mil- 
lions of years” 

“Yes, of course.” , 

“What wonderful iron and steel you must 
have!” 

Tungsto made that peculiar movement 
that was like a smile. “After all, you know, 
we’re, made of iron, and we’ve used the 
metal, as you call it, from the Beginning of 
Time itself.” 

“But why?” asked Len. “Why — after all 
this time-?-have you brought Planet G back 
into the galaxy? You will wreck the entire 
universe, and yourselves along with it. Even 
now the system is beginning to disintegrate.” 

“Yes, I know. Your Earth is being pulled 
away from its sun, and your four outer 
planets are leaving also— if, indeed, the sun 
itself is not destroyed very soon.” He hesi- 
tated. “In the last ten million years there 
has been trouble between two groups on 
our planet,” he said, and emitted a mental 
sigh. “It seems that all living things tend 
to split into two or more groups. There 
hasn’t b§en much incentive for my group 
to continue its worlf. It has always been 
the duty of my side to adjust the machinery 
for control of the planet, but my race is 
dying out and so we have — partly from dis- 
couragement in our own future, and" partly 
from lack of available energy — neglected this 
duty.” 

“Dying out?” said Len. “But you said 
you could live almost indefinitely.” 

“Normally, yes, we live forever. But now 
we suffer from racial — anemia, as you might 
say, because of the extreme scarcity of a 
particular non-metallic element that is nec- 
essary to cleanse the iron of which, we ( are 
born. Also we use it to maintain a certain 
amount of magnetism in our bodies. With- 
out this magnetism we can’t exist because 
it is acted on by radiation from our planet 
and enables us to move about, to send 
thoughts, to perceive, and so on.” 

“I don’t see how that could work,” said, 


Fred. “Could you explain it a little?” 

Tungsto turned toward him. “Remember 
that we live under what to you are strange 
conditions. The attributes of elements and 
even of electricity change unbelievably at 
times!” 

“You mean like helium at absolute zero?” 

“Yes.” 

“Incidentally, what you think is solid 
helium on the surface of our planet is not 
helium,” thought Tungsto. “It is tillial, ele- 
ment Number One, in the first bracket — 
the lightest element in the universe. It is 
so light that it has not occurred on Earth 
or in Solarsystem in any form, because there 
is not enough nebulium in your sun or in 
any of your planets to hold it. You may be 
interested to know that helium never solidi- 
fies at any temperature or at any pressure. 
It does, in fact, become embium, an element 
in the third bracket, at minus two hundred 
seventy-three degrees.” 

“I see” exclaimed Len. “That is why it 
apparently defies the law of gravity at that 
temperature.” 

“Exactly. It is a weak counteractive to 
nebulium.” 

“And that is why pressure will not make 
liquid — well, helium-flow faster,” Avis put 
in. 

“True, though cold will make embium 
flow faster.” 

“And we know that lead and tin and mer- 
cury lose their electrical resistance near ab- 
solute zero, so that a current introduced in 
them will' flow forever.” 

T iUNGSTO made that queer movement 
that meant a smile. 

“That’s true. But those behaviors are 
only elemental. ■ The middle bracket is com- 
posed of simple elements whose reactions 
can be pretty well predicted. When you get 
into the lower and higher brackets, reac- 
tions become vastly more complex, and they 
increase still more in complexity in the 
heavy pressures and extreme heat and cold ‘ 
which can be induced on a planet like this. 
In fact, for a long time we thought we 
would be able to produce a substitute for 
the element necessary to our existence'but” 
— the mental equivalent of a sigh — “we could 
find nothing with a permanent effect.” 

“What is this substance the Iron Men 
must have?” asked Len. 

There was a hesitation in Tungsto’s 
thoughts. “I cannot seem to find in your 
mind a name for it. The nearest I can come 
is flintrex. It is in the middle bracket, but 
it may not be present on your Earth, be- 



IRON 

cause it occurs in only minute quantities 
throughout the universe.” 

“And you have no more?” 

“There are less than two hundred of your 
pounds left in all of Planet G,” Tungsto said 
sadly. 

“How much do you need?” 

“A pound or so every ten thousand years. 
We older Iron Men will continue to live un- 
til we are killed by accident, but those who 
were born in the last million years have a 
limited time to live.” 

“But two hundred pounds would last 
twenty million years,” said Len wonderingly. 

“Ah, but that is only tomorrow!” said 
Tungsto. “We must look to the future. And 
besides, you see, the entire supply of flintrex 
is now controlled by Ferro’s men. There is 
no hope for us.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


A Desperate Plan 



E VEN as Tungsto was communicating 
these ideas, a desperate hope and a 
wild plan was commencing to shape itself 
in Len Niles’ active brain. His main diffi- 
culty would consist persuading Tungsto to 
accept it. Len set his lips stubbornly. It 
was too late to turn back. He must succeed. 
He could not afford to fail. 

Len thought fast and then turned to 
Tungsto. “You older men live forever and 
so I still don’t see why the later generations 
shouldn’t manage to do it also.” 

Tungsto shook his steel head. “It is hope- 
less. ’ There is no future, no hope for the 
race. When we are destroyed, as we must 
be eventually, there won’t be anyone to take 
our places.” He stirred his three legs slowly. 
“Come, I will show you what happens to 
the younger generation.” 

They followed him and his escort past the 
square, where three Iron Men were pulling 
the now case-hardened member from the 
molten cyanide. / 

“I'll get a hardness test and let you know,” 
said the case-hardened man. 

“Fussy for a man who is doomed any- 
way,” observed one of the three others. 

The Earth-people followed Tungsto, who 
stalked along on his three legs, up a diagonal 
street and into a large building. Inside were 
a hundred or more Iron Men, some shiny, 
some rusty, some with a black scale on the 
outside. 

“These,” said Tungsto heavily, “are our 


MEN 51 

people. Their perceptions are dulled and 
they can no longer move freely, so they have 
come here to die.” 

,Len looked at them with narrowed eyes. 
The Iron Men all were propped up on three 
legs, and he could see little difference, at 
first. 

“Here, in the corner is a forged-iron man,’' 
said Tungsto. “He has been here the long- 
est and is about ready to collapse. Hamo, 
can you hear me?” 

Len grew tense himself at the terrible 
struggle that began in the Iron Man when 
he tried to answer. There was almost a 
quiver of his body, but not quite. The front 
arm tried to lift — that was perceptible. One 
finger even twitched. But it didn’t succeed. 

No thought came through. Still the strug- 
gle went on. 

Tungsto stood there silently, shaking his 
head. 

Suddenly with a crash like thunder, one 
of the three hip-joints gave a little. The 
Iron Man settled a fraction of an inch. A 
crack appeared in the iron. 

“You see?” said Tungsto, and his thought 
was heavy with despair. “We have nothing 
at all to live for — but that. As his magne- 
tism is dissipated, his body increases in 
weight until it is as heavy as you would be 
without your anti-gravity units.” 

“But can’t you carry him to the radiation 
area?” 

“We could have, eons ago, but it wouldn’t 
have helped. His body won’t retain the 
force, since he was born with less than half 
the necessary amount of flintrex.” 

“Will he just stand there and die?” 

“His torso will crack and his legs will give 
way in another one hundred years.- Then 
he will be completely destroyed when his 
body crashes on the floor. But already he 
is losing blood steadily. Look there.” 

In the crack of the Iron Man’s hip a tiny 
bubble was forming. It grew into a drop 
of silvery-white that shimmered with 
Hamo’s still unceasing struggle to transmit 
a thought. The drop grew larger in the 
edge of the crack and fell — fell with a ter- 
rific crash. The steel building rocked and 
for a moment Len Niles thought it would 
fall on them. Avis and Fred ran to the 
wall, but Len just stood there, watching 
Hamo. The Nilesman’s jaws were hard. 

He stood to examine tiny pin-points of 
Hamo’s blood that had scattered where they 
fell. He put a finger on one. The top gave 
a little. He tried to push it around, but the 
friction created by the pull of the planet was 
so strong he couldn’t move it at all. 



52 STARTLING STORIES 


“It looks like mercury,” he said wonder- 
ingly. 

“It is mercury,” said Tungsto. “It loses all 
its repellant power when it leaves the body.” 

“Let’s go,” came Avis’ voice. “I can’t stand 
it. These people rdying — everything.” Her 
voice was quivery. , 

“Yeah,” Fred muttered. “Like a grave- 
yard, with the people buried but not yet dead. 
Just dying.” 

They filed slowly outside. “But this flin- 
trex,” Len said, frowning. “Can’t you give 
us a sample? Maybe we could help. There’s 
just a chance — and you need it so much!” 

Tungsto shook his head. “We have none 
whatever. Every particle is in Hematite, 
Ferro’s capital.” 

“My arms are getting heavy,” Avis said 
suddenly. 

W EN looked at the dials on his chest, then 
-ML^ he spoke quickly. “Our gravity repel- 
lant is losing force. We’ll have to get back 
to the ship — fast.” 

“We can’t find it,” said Fred. “We can’t 
see out there.” 

“Here,” said Tungsto. His front arm held 
out a tube. “Here’s an activated light. You 
can see enough with it to find your way. 
And I think I’ll go with you.” He hesitated, 
and Len caught a thought that Tungsto had 
not meant for him to receive. 

“You mean the light gravity bothers 
you?” Len said quickly. 

“The lack of gravity,” said Tungsto. “I 
would think conditions on your planet are 
intolerable. It seems there wouldn’t be 
enough pull to hold you down.” 

Fred looked at him, and then spoke to 
Len Niles through the audio. “I suppose 
we won’t be able to leave the ship again at 
all,” he '•aid. 

“Yes, we will,” Len said grimly. “We have 
some antigravity stuff in the ship’s controls. 
We can use that. “We’re going to help 
them get some flintrex from Ferro — some 
way.” 

In ten minutes they were back in the small 
cabin of “The Nilesman.” There they took 
off their suits, and the pull of the planet 
didn’t affect them. Avis shook out her brown 
hair. 

“I’ll fix something to eat,” she said. 

“Any way I look at it we’re sunk,” said 
Fred. “You say already we haven’t got 
enough gravity repellant to get the ship off 
the ground, and if we take some of that for 
our suits, things wili.be worse.” 

“The only possible chance for us to get 
away from Planet G is to get some of the 


stuff they have on this planet,” Len said 
thoughtfully, cracking a falcon egg. 

“Will the metal in our ship react as theirs 
does?” asked Avis. 

Len considered. “Probably not, but if we 
had some of the stuff actually in the ship, 
we’d be all right. If we don’t — well, Planet 
G is powerful enough to pull the whole sys- 
tem into us — and you saw what happened to 
Hamo.” 

Avis shuddered. “How much would we 
weigh, do you suppose, without any kind of 
protection?” 

Len calculated. “In the neighborhood”— 
he was forced to smile — “of six billion 
pounds. Some three million tons. I hate to 
think what a splash we would make on 
Planet G’s solid tillial surface.” 

“Well!” Avis, arched her eyebrows. “I’d 
better start reducing.” 

Len Niles eyed her. “You stay just as you 
are.” 

Her cheeks dimpled. She smiled. 

“Now that that’s settled what do we do?” 
said Fred sarcastically. “We might as well 
sit here and eat falcon-eggs and wait for 
what is coming.” 

“No, we won’t,” Len said decisively. He 
leaned back and put his feet up on the repel- 
lant-tube locker, stretching his toes and 
watching the nail on his left foot. It was 
getting close to the end of his toe. “From 
what Tungsto said, the Earth must be still 
under the influence of the sun. If we could 
stop this cosmic runaway now, we could save 
the City of Glass and our people in it — and 
the Glassmen.” 

'“It’s all right, except that part about the 
Glassmen,” said Fred. 

“We’ll take all the gravity-repellant we 
need from the ship’s controls for our suits,” 
said Len. “We’ll try to get some flintrex for 
Tungsto. If we do, then they’ll have some- 
thing to live for. We can persuade them tp 
take Planet G somewhere else. If we do it 
soon enough, that will save the earth.” 

“And if we don’t get the flintrex, we three 
will last about twenty-four hours before the 
gravity gets us,” said Fred gloomily. 

Nobody answered. . 

Avis and Fred rested and slept, but Len 
was restless. He stayed awake most of the 
time. Presently Fred got up, and they heard 
Avis stirring. Len took one of the two re- 
maining tubes of the precious repellant, di- 
vided it into three parts, and put it in their 
suits. They ate, donned their suits, and 
started back to Tungsto’s dying city. 

Tungsto himself met them before they 
readied the square. 



IRON 

“I sensed your thoughts,” he said. “You 
seem to have a plan.” 

"It’s more determination than it is plan,” 
said Len Niles. "I think it’s time for a con- 
ference.” 

HEREUPON they conferred. 

Some hours later three thousand of 
Tungsto’s best men gathered on the outskirts 
of the city and they started a march through 
a black area of Planet G to Hematite. Len 
Niles had suggested infiltration, rather than 
a frontal attack, and this idea delighted 
Tungsto. 

“Ferro’s people won’t realize what is hap- 
pening until we are almost there,” he said. 
“We may have a chance.” 

“Of course,” Len answered. “But they’ll 
smell something when they see your men.” 

Tungsto hesitated. There seemed to be 
confusion in his mind. 

“ ‘Smell’ ?” he repeated. 

“Yes. An odor. It’s something like — like 
— well, things give off an — a — hm. Oh, it’s 
just an extra sense we have.” 

“Ha!” said Tungsto. “That’s interesting. 
I perceive no analogy for it here.” 

“I meant Ferro’s men will know something 
is up— I mean happening. 

“That will not occur at once,” said Tung- 
sto. “Hematite is not as well supplied with 
gravity repellant as our city, and so the light 
is not as good.” 

“But aren’t there differences between the 
two races?” 

“Very little,” said Tungsto. “We identify 
each other by comparing the relative inten- 
sity of certain thoughts.” 

Fred was at Len Niles’ side, sourly eager 
for action. Len suggested leaving Avis be- 
hind, but Tungsto objected wryly. 

“On this planet there is no distinction be- 
tween male and female except for child-bear- 
ing. Of these three thousand you see here, 
about half are what you call women.” 

So Avis went along, too. Before they left, 
Len got an activated three-cornered bucket 
to carry. Fred shrugged. 

“Optimist, eh?” 

The infiltration went well. Tungsto’s men 
— and women — masked their thought-trans- 
mitters. At a high point, from where they 
could watch the small but massively-built 
molybdenum globe that held the flintrex, Len 
and Tungsto saw the invading forces gather- 
ing quickly and steadily near the precious 
container. 

“They should meet resistance soon,” Tung- 
sto thought anxiously, his thought-trans- 
mitter on low power. “Ferro must have dis- 


MEN 53 

covered many of our people and will have 
gathered a force to meet us.” v 

The first line of Tungsto’s men formed be- 
fore the globe. It began to look as if they 
would meet no opposition, but suddenly, 
from behind the container rushed a hundred 
of Ferro’s warriors, who formed a double- 
line and waited. 

Tungsto’s transmitter opened up to full 
power. 

“Cast-iron group, prepare to fight ! Column 
of lines, plan A. Attack!” 

The rusty Tungstonians formed themselves 
into three long lines and lumbered toward 
the Ferrians. They hurled their massive 
forms on the defenders with a great grinding 
and clashing which, because of the low' anti- 
gravity in this area, sounded like the noise 
of a great battle in the far distance. They 
kept their arms to their sides and backs and 
fronts, and depended on sheer weight and 
impetus against Ferro’s men. 

Clouds of gray cast-iron dust arose in the 
air, lost resistance, and fell to the ground 
with jarring force. In a moment the small 
plain was strewn with broken bodies. Mer- 
cury began running along the ground, fol- 
lowing a slight grade and gain in tremendous 
speed as it rolled. 

Hardly did Len have time to comprehend 
what was happening before the crashing 
stopped. Tungsto emitted a mental groan. 
None of his men were left on their legs. 

A new line of defenders sprang into place. 

“Wrought-iron men, prepare to attack!” 
came Tungsto’s order, and a hundred black- 
scaled Tungstonians ran forward into line. 
“Plan B,” said Tungsto. “Column of lines. 
Attack !” 

The new lines hurled themselves at the de- 
fenders. These had better luck. They seemed 
to be breaking through, when suddenly Fer- 
ro’s men unleashed a new tactic. In the first 
charge they, too, had kept their four arms 
close in to their bodies. Now they began 
flailing with these, and Len perceived they 
were using their fingernails — and not aim- 
lessly. They scratched at the screen grids of 
Tungsto’s men. Immediately strange things 
began to happen. Some of the attackers fell 
with tremendous crashes, while others sud- 
denly left the ground and floated off into the 
sky. 

Tungsto groaned. 

“They’re using their vanadium fingernails 
to destroy our gravity-balancing mechan- 
ism,” he explained. “It isn’t ethical.” 

“Why?” asked Len. 

“We agreed, long ago, that to preserve the 
races we would observe certain rules. Of 


54 STARTLING STORIES 


course a man’s gravity-balancing mechanism 
is his most vital, point. It can never be re- 
placed after he reaches maturity. To scratch 
them away is like — like — ” 

“Like gouging in the eyes,” Fred suggested. 

“Yes,” answered Tungsto. 

OW the charge was oyer. A new line 
of Ferro’s men was formed. 

“Twenty-carbon steel,” came Tungsto’s or- 
der. “Prepare to attack!” 

“Wait a minute,” said Len Niles. “We’re 
not getting anywhere. We haven’t got a 
chance.” 

“But I am going to protest the use of 'fin- 
gernails,” said Tungsto. 

“What good will that do if they defeat 
you?” - ' 

Tungsto could not answer the question. He 
did not know. 

“I think I’m getting the idea,” said Len. 
“You’ll work up through different grades of 
steel tintil you get to tool steel, say?” 

Tungsto paused to interpret “tool steel.” 
“Yes, that’s right.” 

“And they’ll meet you with the same kind 
each time?” 

“Yes.” 

“The way it looks to me, we are losing be- 
cause our men are not as strong, or as tough 
as those of Ferro.” 

“I’m afraid so. We can only try.” 1 

“Is this due to a lack of flintrex?” 

“Yes. Flintrex, besides adding certain 
qualities to metal, also cleanses it of im- 
purities.” 

Len couldn’t help thinking of the compres- 
sor-shaft, but he put it out of his mind. 

“You have nichrome and manganese and 
vanadium and beryllium men?” 

Tungsto hesitated as he searched Len’s 
mind for the meaning of each element. “Yes,” 
he said. “And many, many more.” 

“Your idea is to work up to tougher and 
tougher ones?” 

“Yes. That is the only strategy permissible. 
The final groups will be the nickel-chromi- 
um - tungsten - cobalt - molybdenum - tantalum 
alloys. They are our rulers and their cabi- 
nets.” Tungsto sighed. “It will take days,.- 
perhaps weeks, because the harder metals 
fight much longer.” 

“That’s the sissiest fighting I ever saw,” 
said Fred. 

“Get behind a Venusian cloud!” Len 
snapped back at him. 

Tungsto didn’t quite understand these re- 
marks. 

“An attack is a tiresome business,” he. said, 
“but of course there was nothing else for us 


to do. And what we must do, we must.” 

“But why plan it this way?” 

“It’s tradition,” said Tungsto. “It avoids 
destruction of the entire races.” 

“Well, the side with the greatest number 
is almost sure to win,” said Fred. 

“Yes, of course. And. Ferro’s men out- 
number us.” ' 

Len was stunned. “Why, then, did you 
start the attack?” 

Tungsto shrugged his four shoulders. 
“What else could we do ? Stand up and die ?” 

The Iow-carbon-steel men went in. They 
bent when they crashed against Ferro’s men, 
but they didn’t suffer as much breakage as 
the cast-iron men. Yet presently they were 
defeated. 

“It’s going badly,” said Len. 

Avis spoke up. “Our men aren’t putting 
their heart into it. They go forward as if 
they knew they’re going to lose.” 

“Yes, they know we’ll lose,” said Tungsto. 

A new defense line formed. Tungsto 
started to give an order. 

“Wait!” said Len Niles. “Send in the first 
manganese group. Order the spring-steel 
men in reserve for a counter-attack!” 

Tungsto turned his screen-grid on Len. 
“But it’s not according to the regular order 
of alloys.” 1 

“Do it!” said Len. 

Tungsto hesitated, but obeyed. Three lines 
of shiny steel men sprang forward. 

“What’s on the other side?” asked Ken. 

“Oil-hardened tool steel,” said Tungsto. 

“Good. Order the attack.” 

Tungsto did. The manganese men crashed 
through the tool-steel men and left them . 
broken and battered. They rushed back to 
reform. 

Len Niles was exultant. “Only three losses 
for our side,” he pointed out. “All screen- 
grid casualties. Two floated away. One 
dropped.” 

“But we can’t do this,” said Tungsto. “The 
rules of attack forbid it.” 

“Asteroids to that!” said Len. “How about 
fingernails ?”. 

RISKLY Tungsto ordered in a higher 
manganese group. 

“Wait a minute,” said Len. “Your men 
never tire, do they?” 

“No.” 

“Then use this same bunch again. Save 
the others until you need them.” He was 
excited now. “What are they meeting us 
with?” 

Tungsto studied the new defense line. 
“Some cobalt alloy, I would say.” 



IRON MEN 51 


“Good. Your manganese men can take 
them, too. Wait. Have the second man- 
ganese bunch follow up immediately.” 

“But it isn’t ethical.” 

“Do what I say.” Len was emphatic. 

Tungsto sighed and ordered the attack. 
Now the crash of steel against steel began 
to take on a new sound, a high, vibrating 
note, as tough steel met tough steel. 

“Order them to go right on through to the 
globe,” said Len. 

“I can’t do that,” said Tungsto. “We can’t 
make an attempt to get the flintrex itself un- 
less we win the battle. The globe itself isn’t 
locked, and if we win we can get it easily.” 

“Asteroids! This business is silly.” 

“Don’t forget that Hart Niles told us in 
his notes how a few hundred years of tradi- 
tion bound the world until it was almost de- 
stroyed,” said Avis. “What do you think a 
million years would do?” 

Len stared down at her. “I get it,” he 
said, “but I’m a newcomer. I’m going to 
bust a few traditions in a big way.” 

Before they could reach for him' he was 
gone, running awkwardly in the space-suit, 
the bucket floating along in one hand. He 
went straight into the center of the charging 
line, watching for an opening. Half a dozen 
manganese men surged hard through, leav- 
ing cobalt men on the ground and the gap 
for which he had been searching. He sprang 
through the opening and ran straight for the 
steel globe. 

There was no one to stop him. The globe 
was hardly waist-high, with a foot-wide op- 
ening in the top. Strange way, thought Len, 
to preserve anything as precious as flintrex. 

He put his head through the hole. The 
globe was half filled with a fine brown pow- 
der. He hesitated. He had expected to 
find it in small containers of some kind, and 
he had figured that in three or four trips he 
could obtain all that Tungsto’s men needed. 
But the loose powder didn’t interfere with 
his plan. He could scoop up the stuff with 
his hands. 

He pulled his head back out, saw the at- 
tack was still going successfully, and thrust 
the bucket in the hole. It wouldn’t go 
through. He set it on top and put one arm 
and his head inside. He shoved one gloved 
hand down into the brown powder and 
started to bring it up. 

But his arm was almost pulled from its 
socket. His hand seemed to be nailed down. 
He tried again and groaned from the twist 
in his shoulder. It was impossible for him 
to raise his hand a fraction of an inch. 

Now he understood why the powder was 


kept loose in an open globe. It had been 
permanently gravitized so that it had what 
would have been its normal weight under 
the tremendous gravity. One grain must 
have weighed hundreds of pounds. He 
would never be able to lift any of it. He 
uncupped his hand and started back out. 
Then he groaned again. His shoulder 
twisted until he thought it must be broken. 

He couldn’t get his hand out of the globe 
because some of the powder was clinging 
in the cracks of the glove. 

“It’s what I get for interfering.” 

He managed to raise his head through the 
hole and get his other arm inside. The at- 
tack was over. ' The manganese men were 
withdrawing and a new line of defenders 
was coming from behind the globe. Some 
of them turned their screen grids toward 
Len, as if trying to discover what was oc- 
curring there. 

Len worked desperately, flicking tiny 
grains of dust from his hand. The weight 
of the powder explained why they didn’t try 
to get it until the battle was decided. 

He could almost lift his arm now. He 
examined his weighted hand and brushed 
off a speck of brown dust. He was free. He 
slid off the globe and started back. 

' But now two Ferrians were running to- 
ward him. They could adapt themselves 
pretty fast, Len thought grimly. Their va- 
nadium fingernails were flashing. If one of 
those touched his space-suit he would die. 

They were almost on him. He ^dropped 
to the ground and rolled toward them. One 
stumbled over him and fell, with Len squirm- 
ing desperately to get from under before an 
iron torso crashed down on him. 

He rolled away as the steel legs came to 
the ground, and sprang to his feet. The sec- 
ond one was waiting for him. It hurled its 
steel body at him. Len dodged, but the 
steel brushed him and threw him off bal- 
ance. He floundered to hold his footing. 
The Ferrian stopped and started to turn. 
Len got his balance and dashed across be- 
hind him. 

But a steel arm caught him across the 
middle. If he had been standing still, it 
would have killed him. But he was running 
in the same direction as the blow. It hit 
him. with a thud and lifted him into the air. 
In the audio he heard Avis scream. 

He came down a dozen feet away, landing 
on his shoulders. Like lightning he rolled 
over to his feet, and started to run. This 
time he wasn’t fooling. He charged across 
the small plain and knifed back through 
Tungsto’s new line. 



56 


STARTLING STORIES 


CHAPTER XIV 
Missing Ingredient 


C UTTING away from the battle lines, 
Len Niles headed straight for the hill 
where Tungsto and Fred and Avis were 
standing, without wasting any more time. 
Len was battered, but he was alive, and his 
space-suit was still whole. 

He looked' back at the conflict. Matters 
didn’t look encouraging. Ferro’s men were 
adaptable. They had brought out their 
beryllium line for defense. They crashed 
through the vanadium attackers and charged 
the reserve. There the spring-steel defense 
line bounced them back with heavy losses. 

“How many spring-steel men have you?” 
asked Len. 

“Those are all,” Tungsto replied. 

Len watched events glumly. A second 
wave of beryllium men came charging across 
the battle area. Len groaned. They’d break 
through now. Too many of them. They 
started crashing into the spring-steel re- 
serves. 

On impulse, Len leaped forward, drew his 
glass pistol, aimed at the foremost beryllium 
man and fired at his screen-grid. 

There was a startling result. 

The glass bullet left the muzzle of his 
gun, but when it lost physical contact with 
his body, it dropped quickly — dropped with 
a crash that showed its tremendous weight, 
and opened a crack in the tillial. The crack 
widened swiftly into a chasm that shot 
through the battlefield. Ferrians and Tungs- 
tonians fell into it and crashed far below, 
out of sight. 

Len stumbled back just in time. 

“When in the City of Glass,” Hart Niles 
had written, “do as the Glassmen do.” 

Len was crestfallen. There was nothing 
for the Tungstonians to do now but retreat. 
The globe of fiintrex was protected by an 
impassable barrier, for the chasm was fif- 
teen feet wide and its bottom far out of 
sight. . / 

Tungsto gave the order. 

“We’ll have to retreat by way of the Acti- 
vation Area,” he explained. “Otherwise 
Ferro’s men will be waiting for us. . It. isn’t 
ethical-, but” — he sighed — “ethics don’t seem 
to govern any more.” 

His men started back. He kept Len and 
Avis and Fred with him, and they marched 
over a long plain in total blackness. 
“Everything is flat here,” Tungsto told 


them. “The heavy gravity makes upthrusts 
of ground impossible. That chasm that 
opened up when you used your — weapon — 
will soon be filled with tillial that will break 
from the edges.” 

“I see why weapons haven’t been used on 
your planet,” said Len. 

Tungsto answered slowly. “I always 
thought it was just tradition.” 

The planet became not quite so dark. At 
first it was just a thinning of the atmos- 
phere,' then it was like the dawn an hour 
before sunrise, and finally before them 
spread an immense area as light as day. The 
area . appeared to be nothing but a flat plain 
of frozen, pale yellow tillial. 

Tungsto walked slowly at first, and pres- 
ently Len noticed a mask of some sort had 
dropped over the Iron Man’s screen grid. 
Tungsto answered the question before Len 
formed it. 

“Our perceptive mechanism can’t stand 
the intense light that’s characteristic of this 
area,” he said. 

His twenty-eight hundred men marched 
in order behind them, but suddenly, without 
warning, Len was unable to lift his right 
foot. His blood turned as cold as the frozen 
helium on Uranus’s fourth moon, but his 
voice was quite calm as he spoke to Fred 
and Avis. 

“My repellant is gone.” 

Avis gave a choked cry and ran to bis 
side, and then she, too, uttered a similar 
distressed cry. 

“My left foot! I can’t lift it. It’s terribly 
heavy.” 

Tungsto was watching them. He ap- 
peared to be amused. 

“it’s nothing but a magnetic porlatum,” 
he said. “We can counteract it.” 

“What do you mean by that?” asked Len. 
Tungsto’s words brought him a feeling of 
vast relief, but Len was dubious. 

“Porlatum is a plant,” said Tungsto. “The 
only one that grows on our planet.” 

“He means magnetic potato,” Fred mut- 
tered. 

Tungsto’s screen grid turned to Fred. 
“Perhaps. Wait. Yes, I see from your 
thoughts it is like a potato, a small, oval 
root. These roots become magnetized from 
the activity in the area. When you step 
over a big one, it holds, you. down as if you 
had lost your repellant.” 

“Oh,” said Avis, tremendously relieved. 

“But how do we get loose?” Len asked. 
“It won’t help any if we have to stand on 
these potatoes for the rest of eternity.” 

“Wait,” said Tungsto. 



IRON 

H E WALKED ahead, slowly, seeming 
to feel for something with his three 
legs. In a moment he stopped and started 
to dig in the tillial with his three steel fin- 
gers. Then he arose and held out a small 
purple object that resembled a potato. His 
army had spread out through the field and 
all were doing the same thing, walking 
slowly, stopping to dig, and bringing up 
small objects. 

‘‘Here’s a negative — potato,” Tungsto said. 
“Lay it beside your foot.” 

Len did. But his foot didn’t get lighter. 
“Maybe it won’t work on us,” he said 
anxiously. 

“I think it will. What you need is a posi- 
tive potato. You must have stepped on a 
negative.” 

He dug again. “Try this.” 

Len placed it in position and his foot came 
free. His foot wasn’t light, but he was able 
to pull it loose. 

“I’ll get another for your — lady,” said 
Tungsto. “Now you’ll need another pair. 
You carry one in each hand. When a foot 
becomes fast, you lay a potato by it. When 
you get an opposite by your foot, they coun- 
teract each other and you will be able to 
go on.” 

Fred was balancing potatoes in his hands. 
“I see now why there’s no fighting in this 
place,” he growled. 

“That’s right,” said Tungsto, “Now you 
walk around until you feel a slight pull, then 
you dig. It takes hours, sometimes, to cross 
a field of potatoes.” 

“That sounds like what Hart Niles used 
to tell us about those things he called ‘water- 
melons’,” said Fred. 

“It must be dangerous to get out here 
alone,” said Len. 

“It would be for you because your gravity 
repellant is limited,” said Tungsto. “For 
us, it doesn’t 'matter. We have eternity to 
wait, anyway. But we seldom come into the 
Area unless in groups of three or four.” 

Tungsto’s men had spread out over a 
large space. They were advancing, occa- 
sionally stopping suddenly, changing pota- 
toes from one hand to the next, then dig- 
ging for another. It was slow. 

“What a wonderful trap for an attacking 
army,” thought Ken. 

“This district is heavily loaded with — 
with — wait — actinium,” said Tungsto. 

“Actinium!” Len exclaimed. “That’s even 
rarer than radium, on Earth.” 

Tungsto considered. “Yes, it probably is. 
There are a number of forms. It is slightly 
radioactive and nearly always is found in 


MEN 57 

conjunction with uranium or radium. This 
particular form — actinium Six, we call it — 
is shortlived. But in the presence of ura- 
nium, its life is multiplied considerably. 
Also, with uranium present as a catalyst, it 
acts on nebulium and causes it to become 
a powerful repellant, with many times its 
original force of gravitation. Nebulium, by 
the way, is a multiple-ionized form of your 
element thorium. We Iron Men are 
equipped with osmium screens to control 
the repellant action.” 

“Oh,” said Len. “Is that the way you 
control the planets movements, too?” 

Tungsto nodded his steel head. “With our 
machinery and large amounts of negated 
nebulium we can actually cause the planet 
to repel instead of attract.” 

Avis cried, “That’s it. That’s why Hal- 
ley’s comet performs so strangely.” 

Tungsto caught her tumbling thought. 
“Yes, comets are composed largely of re- 
dullial, an extremely light element not far 
above tillial, which is particularly respon- 
sive to nebulium.” 

“That explains Simon’s repellant, too,” 
Len said, excited. “He isolated a small 
amount of actino-uranium, and there was 
enough nebulium in it to provide the re- 
pelling force. It was the combination of 
all three elements which did the work. 
Simon would give his life to know that.” 

Tungsto stooped and with his back arm 
picked up a small piece of rock. “Here is 
a piece of actino-uranium in a frozen hydro- 
gen matrix.” 

Len took it. “I want to save this for an- 
alysis,” he said. “Is there plenty?” 

“Oh, yes. This Area covers several thou- 
sand of your square miles.” 

“And I’m tired already,” Fred groaned. 

“Oh, we’re cutting across a small tongue. 
When we get through, we’ll be at the edge 
of our city.” 

Listen, Tungsto,” said Len. “You have 
plenty of stuff to work with. Why don’t 
you still control the planet’s movements and 
keep it away from the galaxy? You’re going 
to tear up the whole cosmic system.” One 
foot was nailed down. He stopped to lay a 
potato by it and then, when his foot was 
free, looked for another. 

S LOWLY Tungsto shook his head. “I 
know,” he said wearily. “But some day 
we’ll all die, anyway, and then who will do 
the work? It takes thousands of years’ 
training for this work.” He made a pecu- 
liar movement, indicating a sad smile. “One 
doesn’t control the movements of a planet 



58 STARTLING STORIES 


by reading instructions from a book, you 
know. It’s a delicate process. It took our 
greatest mathematical board three hundred 
years to calculate the formulae for keeping 
the planet at the proper distance from your 
Solarsystem without becoming lost in the 
Voids.” 

“Oh.” Len groaned and took a deep 
breath of oxygen. “Then, even if you 
wanted to, you couldn’t move the planet for 
a long time.” 

“Oh, yes. We could 6tart it. Our trained 
machinery men could guess at the amount 
of power necessary. Then we could stop 
the reaction later and calculate the final 
formulae. It would of course take us thou- 
sands of years to reach the Edge.” 

“Then there’s hope — ” 

Len Niles ducked. He almost fell down. 

Something had scurried across in front of 
him and, directly before him, shot into the 
air. He was staring upward when the thing 
exploded thirty feet above him. The pieces 
seemed to lose part of their repellant prop- 
erties as they dropped, and fell with tre- 
mendous thuds. 1 A titanium-tantalum man 
directly behind them was struck by one of 
the pieces and split in two. He fell to the 
ground, with mercury crashing from his 
veins. 

“Those little animals are dangerous,” said 
Tungsto. “The pieces don’t often hit us, 
but when they do, it’s always fatal.” He' 
shrugged his four shoulders. 

By this time, apparently, they had left the 
potato field. 

Len watched for the sleek little animals 
that scurried ahead of them. 

“Your ship landed near the edge of the 
Area,” said Tungsto. “That’s why you could 
see.” ■ 

» “We are getting lighter,” Avis observed. 

Len looked down at her. 

“You’re right,” he exclaimed. “Say, I 
think I begin to see how we can get away.” 

“Maybe we can persuade Tungsto to help 
us,” Avis suggested. 

“Yes,” said Len. “If we can get the stuff 
to move the ship, we’d be all right.” But 
he shook his head slowly. “But what good 
will it do us to leave? Here is where the 
trouble is. Here’s where we have to fight 
it out.”' 

They came out, finally, in Tungsto’s diag- 
onal iron streets. They had felt light of 
weight in the Area, but as they marched 
toward the square, Len suddenly realized 
his legs were very heavy. He glanced at the 
dials on his chest. 

“Our repellant,” he said shortly, “is play- 


ing out. We’ve got to get back to the ship 
—fast.” ■ v 

Tungsto went with them. “I feel as if I 
had known you a long time,” he said. “You 
are my friend, although you are made of 
strange materials. Otherwise you are just 
like us.” 

Avis looked at him, stunned. Len broke 
in quickly on the audio. 

“Don’t think, Avis. They can’t actually 
see. Their screen-grids perceive materials 
and general forms, but they depend on other 
senses and on experience to tell a Tungsto- 
nian from a Ferrian, for instance.” 

Tungsto had paused, apparently trying to 
catch their thoughts, but now he went on. 
“I will bring you some activated nebulium 
from our underground stores, so you won’t 
run the risk of being crushed.” 

But their bodies were getting very heavy. 
They made progress more and more slowly. 
Lines of weariness began to show in their 
faces. Fred’s cheeks were gray with exhaus- 
tion. 

“Can’t go much farther,” he grunted. 

“We’re almost there,” said Len. He took 
hold of Fred’s arm, and Avis’, too, but he 
himself could hardly travel. It was like 
lifting his legs with tremendous weights at- 
tached. 

Then the ship came in sight. They helped 
Avis into the lock, and Len helped Fred. 
Then Len got his arms in and fell flat on 
his stomach. From there he couldn’t move. 
His legs were like solid cement cornerstones. 
But Tungsto came up, gave him a push, and 
Len crawled inside. He asked Tungsto in, 
but the Iron Man said he had to return. 

In there it was lighter, and Len Niles at 
once went to the ship’s controls. When he 
turned back his face was white. “The re- 
pellant we left in the ship is losing power, 
too,” he said grimly. “We have only a few 
hours to live.” He put on his helmet and 
switched on ,the thought-transmitter. He 
thought as hard as he ever had in his life, 
but there was no answering thought from 
Tungsto. Len put the helmet down. 

“I’ve got to find Tungsto,” he declared. 
“That’s the only hope we have.” 

A VIS and -Fred protested, but Len wear- 
ily put on his suit and got into the 
air-lock. He opened the outer door and 
put one foot through. It dropped like an 
iron compressor-shaft in water. He knew 
then it was impossible. If he got through 
that door, he would crumple on the ground, 
and eventually spread out over G’s surface 
in a thin layer of— well, nothing pleasant. 



IRON MEN 59 

CHAPTER XV 
Unexpected Aid 


He tried to pull his foot back in, but he 
couldn’t. Suddenly there was help. Fred 
was there, tugging at him. Together they 
got his foot inside. Defeated, Len took off 
his suit. ° 

“That’s all there is, I guess. There isn’t 
any more. Tungsto will never get back in 
time. I’m sure of that. Time doesn’t mean 
much to him.” 

He put away his suit. “Well, anyway, 
let’s try to keep busy. Where’s the spectro- 
scope?” 

He found it, put the small piece of actino- 
uranium in a Geissler tube. He adjusted 
dials, shot a spark through the tube ; he used 
varying excitation potentials and different 
sparks, with the automatic camera record- 
ing each spectrum. Avis was quiet, watch- 
ing him. Fred was slumped in his iron 
chair. 

Len pulled out the photos and laid them 
one by one on the comparator. Presently 
he spoke, puzzled. 

“There’s some impurity here. I see the 
characteristic line of hydrogen at six-five- 
six-two point seven-nine Angstroms. In it 
is uranium” — he spoke slowly, and consulted 
a reference book. “We have no data on 
actinium.” He laid another photo on the 
scale. “There are some strange lines, and 
yet they seem familiar, as if I’d seen them 
often. A line of first intensity at three-nine- 
oh-five point five-two-eight Angstroms.” 

“Probably one of these fancy elements we 
never heard of,” Fred muttered in wry dis- 
pleasure. 

But Len was consulting the tables. 
“Three, nine, oh, five, point, five two eight 
— hey, wait up for just a minute! That’s 
silicon!” 

“Silicon?” said Ayis. “Where did it come 
from?” 

Len looked blank. “It couldn’t possibly 
be right.” 

Then Fred, in spite of his weariness and 
his weight, jumped. 

“I know! I know where you got it! You 
remember— a fine brown powder ! They give 
it to the Glassmen in their rations!” 

“Yes, but I still don’t understand.” 

“A fine brown powder!” urged Fred. His 
eyes were big with excitement. 

Len’s mouth opened slowly. “Sure! As 
sure as comets and gravitation ! The globe ! 
The fine brown powder! Flintrex!” he 
shouted. 

“You had a trace left on your hands,” 
said Fred. 

Len jumped up. He was jubilant. “That’s 
it! Silicon! The Iron Men need silicon!” 


WAVE of hope, such as he had not 
known for many days, leaped in Len 
Niles’ breast. It filled him with a sense of 
exultation and delight. 

“Of course ! ” Len shouted excitedly. “The 
thought-word was flintrex. Silicon comes 
from the pre-historic Latin silex, meaning 
flint. That’s all Tungsto could get from our 
thoughts. The Earth has more silicon than 
anything else but oxygen. Just as Planet G 
has most of the nebulium in the universe, 
we’ve gotjnost of the silicon! The Earth 
is the universe’s storehouse of silicon. Sili- 
con! Get that? Sand? Sand by the bil- 
lions of tons!” 

“But we’re not on Earth,” said Fred so- 
berly. “It would take time to transport 
sand.” 

“There’s a hammering at the air-lock!” 
said Avis. “It must be Tungsto.” 

Len quickly donned a helmet for com- 
munication purposes and opened the outer 
door of the air-lock. Then Tungsto was 
inside, braced on his three legs, his four 
arms each carrying a heavy container. 

“I’ve brought you four hundred pounds,” 
he said. “That would be enough to move 
your planet earth anywhere you want to. 
But of course you won’t want to go back. 
In another two weeks it will have completely 
escaped from the sun.” 

“We could move it back,” thought Len 
quickly. 

Tungsto shook his metallic head. “None 
of your people will be alive by that time. 
Here. I’ve brought a small osmium screen. 
It’s big enough to do anything you will need 
to do.” 

“Fine. I — what’s the matter.” 

Tungsto had turned suddenly. His screen 
grid was toward the city. 

“Ferro’s men are coming for a counter- 
attack,” he said. “It isn’t ethical, since we 
didn’t win, but they never fight fair.” His 
four shoulders shrugged expressively. He 
started for the lock. “I’ll have to hurry 
back and organize a defense. This probably 
will be the last of us,” he thought resignedly. 

Len stared at him. “No! I’ll stop the at- 
tack,” he suddenly shouted. “I know how!” 

“You can’t use the repellant,” Tungsto 
said. “They will have protectors.” 

“I hadn’t even thought of that. Some- 
thing better — and I think it will work! Go 



60 STARTLING STORIES 


ahead and organize. I’ll be there in a few 
minutes.” 

Hurriedly he distributed a small amount 
of the vital actino-uranium in the ship’s con- 
trols and in the three suits. 

“Come on,” he said to his companions. 
“We’re going to try something.” 

He went to the back of the ship. 

They reached the edge of the city just 
ahead of the Ferrians and met Tungsto, 
gloomily waiting for the attack, his. chrome- 
manganese men drawn up in the first wave. 

Len chuckled. “At least there’s been one 
change in tactics since we got here.” He 
pointed to the spring-steel reserves in Tung- 
sto’s formation. 

The three-legged army approached. At a 
command from their leader, they stopped. 
An attacking rank began to form. ' Len 
watched the shiny steel leader until the 
charge was about ready to start. Then he 
sent out a thought. 

“Hold on a minute! I want to talk to 
you.” 

Ferro’s answer was slow. He was an- 
alyzing the peculiar thought of this strange 
person. 

Len walked forward slowly, and he was 
careful to think only friendly thoughts — 
how he could supply something that both 
factions of Iron Men needed, how he wanted 
to help them both. In fact, a fleeting 
thought occurred to him that he was laying 
it on a little thick, but he instantly sup- 
pressed that one. 

“What do you want?’ asked Ferro. He 
stalked ahead a short distance and waited, 
his screen grid turned straight to Len. His 
four arms down but his manner showed he 
was on the alert. Len realized Ferro wasn’t 
going to be caught in a trap. 

“There need be no war between you and 
Tungsto,” Len told him. “The only differ- 
ence between your people and his people is 
the control of fiintrex.” 

“And there is little of that,” Ferro flung 
back. “Tungsto needn’t think he can take 
it from us. In a few million years his men 
will be extinct, and ours will rule the planet.” 

“Tungsto’s people have given up hope,” 
answered Len. “Remember, Ferro, they are 
not operating the machinery to control the 
planet’s movements. They alone know how 
to manage that machinery, and if it is neg- 
lected, your planet will be destroyed. You 
must know it is a runaway body now.” 

O ANSWERING thought came from 
Ferro. 

“I can provide silicon — fiintrex — for both 


of you,” Len went on. “Enough for a long 
time. Enough to keep you a strong, virile 
race.” 

“We have — silicon,” said Ferro. 

“But not much,” Len argued. “I can give 
you many times that amount.” He calcu- 
lated. “Say thirty times what you have 
now.” 

Ferro’s arms twitched. He would, Len 
knew, like to get his hands on that much 
silicon. Finally Ferro thought, “How can 
you prove this?” 

Len held out his cupped hand and walked 
slowly closer. “I have here a small amount 
of silicon dioxide. I can provide much 
more— thirty times what you have now — six 
thousand pounds.” 

If Ferro had had eyes they would have 
bulged. His head shot forward and a tiny, 
brief flash of light came from his screen 
grid. 

Len moved closer, cautiously. 

“Take this,” he said. “Examine it.” 

Ferro hesitated. His thoughts were a 
confused mixture of suspicion and desire. 
Finally he held out his shiny front arm, the 
three steel fingers cupped. Len poured the 
silicon dioxide into his hand. 

Ferro turned his screen grid toward it. 
Some adjustment seemed to be going on in- 
side his head. .* 

“He is using a spectroscopic lens,” came 
Tungsto’s thought. 

Presently Ferro straightened up. His 
back arm motioned and one of his men came 
forward, a polished titanium man. The 
titanium man took the substance and ex- 
amined it. Presently he also nodded his 
steel head. 

“The stranger is true,” came his excited 
thought. “This is indeed silicon dioxide. 
Six thousand — pounds — of this would last 
a long time.” 

“All right,” thought Len, pressing the 
bargain, “Will you agree to leave the Tung- 
stonians alone if I provide this amount?” 

Ferro called more of his men together. 
Thoughts flashed among them with the 
speed of gravity, and, then Ferro turned. 

“On condition there is no trick,” he said. 
“When can you deliver this material?” 

Len caught a thought from Fred. It was 
hardly a definite thought, but an impression 
that said as plainly as words, “Now we’re 
sunk.” 

But Len’s voice rang out. 

“Now! Whenever you bring containers,” 

In his exuberance he had forgotten and 
said it aloud, but Ferro got the thought. 
He hesitated and then flashed a command 



IRON MEN 61 


back to his army for a container. 

In a moment a big sheet-iron container 
floated through the air. Obviously, thought 
Len, it was equipped with a gravity-balancer. 
It settled down before him. 

“What guarantee will you give?” asked 
Len. 

“His word is good,” came Tungsto’s 
thought from behind. 

“To the . ship, then,” said Len. 

Then came a cry of relief from Avis, some- 
where behind him. “Silicon dioxide!” she 
said. “Sand!” 

Fred was voiceless for a moment. “Oh, 
sure!” he said. “Sand! Ballast!” 

Within half an hour they had loaded three 
tons of their sand ballast into the tub 
through the escape hatches in the ballast 
compartments. Each time sand flowed into 
the tub it started to settle, but a Ferrian 
from his seat on top made an adjustment 
and the tub rose again. 

Ferro watched every grain of sand. He 
kept his spectroscopic lens turned on the 
flowing stream. Finally he was satisfied. 

“You have done much for us,” he said 
warmly. 

The tub floated off, and Ferro ordered his 
men to return to Hematite. His four arms 
saluted Len Niles. Then he strode away. 

Then Len realized how gloomy Tungsto’s 
thoughts had become. 

“You’ve helped Ferro, but what of us?” 
he asked. 

Len beamed at him. “Don’t worry, my 
friend. There is more. I have saved ten 
thousand pounds fe-r you.” 

“Oh!” Tungsto’s manner grew cheerful. 
“Can we — shall I — ?” 

“Bring your containers,” Len said. “But 
there are two favors I would like to ask.” 
He stopped and caught his breath. “Will 
you move your planet, and can you let us 
have more nebulium?” 

“It will be moved,” said Tungsto prompt- 
ly. “And you may have all the nebulium 
you want. I will order the containers to 
be brought filled with it — with actino-ura- 
nium to negate it and osmium to control 
the reaction.” 

I N ANOTHER two hours their ballast 
compartments were loaded with nebu- 
lium — most of which Tungsto had had neu- 
tralized — actino-uranium, and osmium. 

“In the osmium screen I gave you,” Tung- 
sto said, “is enough nebulium to raise your 
ship.” 

“And you won’t forget,” Len reminded 
him, anxiously. “Can you — will you move 


your planet at once, as I have asked?” 

“I have ordered our men to work,” said 
Tungsto. “Your Earth is now one hundred 
thirty-five million miles from the Sun, al- 
most in the former orbit of Mars, and I am 
afraid it will be very cold out there. But 
we are putting all our machinery into action 
as a repellant, and our planet will pull the 
Earth no longer. However,” he thought so- 
berly, “it is possible that your Earth has 
acquired enough speed completely to escape 
the Sun. For that I have the deepest regret, 
but there is nothing we can do now.” 

“But if it is so far out, the Earth will 
freeze,” said Avis faintly. 

Tungsto’s thoughts were rapid. “Eventu- 
ally you will learn how to move the Earth, 
but that will take generations. In the mean- 
time, you will have to do many things to 
protect yourself, but I have here a hand- 
thinker. It speaks in thoughts, and describes 
our machinery. With it you will have un- 
limited power from nebulium.” He consid- 
ered. “You could even pull a great amount 
of heat from the Sun to warm parts of your 
planet.” 

“Oh,” said Len, brightening. “That’s all 
we need. The Earth is uninhabited except 
in one small spot.” 

“Then if you use your nebulium carefully, 
its life is infinite. The actino-uranium is 
short-lived. It lasts perhaps ten thousand 
years.” 

“But we can produce more frpm the Earth 
itself,” said Len. 

Tungsto nodded his steel head. “I think 
so. Here also is a hand-thinker on iron and 
steel. From your thoughts, I have seen 
that you need this. Just ask it questions 
and it will answer them,” What he handed 
over was a tiny steel box that fitted in the 
cup of Len’s palm. 

“Well, my friends,” said Tungsto, “good- 
by, as you say, and good luck as I hear you 
thinking.” , 

Len reached out his hand impulsively. 
Tungsto 'hesitated as he searched for the 
thought and then he reached, too. His 
three steel fingers closed around Len’s palm. 

Len shrieked. Instantly Tungsto loosened 
his grip. Len wrung his hand, but he 
grinned. 

“Good-by — and tell all the little Iron Boys 
and Girls hello for Uncle Len, when they 
are born.” 

“That I will do,” said Tungsto gravely. 

They entered the air-lock one by one, got 
inside and took off their suits. They looked 
at one another. Len grinned, Avis smiled, 
and even Fred’s face was bright. 



STARTLING STORIES 


62 

Len felt in his pockets. “Have a hydro- 
pone,” he said to Fred. “Wait!” He held 
up his hand. “A slight wager.” 

“Asteroids!” growled Fred. 

“One to five hundred,” said Len. “You’re 
bound to win sometime. If you win, you 
will get rid of five hundred sandoes.” 

Fred scowled. “Okay,” he said. “Let me 
do it this time.” 

He took the package and held it close to 
his face, examining it. He pressed the but- 
ton. A hydropone popped up, smouldered 
a moment — and went out. 

Len stared. “Wait! What happened?” 

Fred brought nitrate disks from his locker. 

“Twenty-five,” he counted. “Thanks, 
Len.” 

They went to work at the controls. Pres- 
ently the activator hummed. Len set the 
controls gingerly with the new surplus of 
power in the repellant tubes. Suddenly the 
ship shot straight up. 

“Oops!” said Len, getting off the floor. 
“Too much that time.” 

He set the course for the solar system 
and turned on the power of the atomic mo- 
tor. 

“No acceleration,” he said. “That is, you 
can’t feel any. I’m using the nebulium tubes 
to counteract it. Boy, will we make a run 
for home!” 

M E WATCHED the ether-speed indi- 
cator. 

“Outside of Planet G, we’ve got in this 
ship the most terrific concentration of power 
in the universe,” he said. “But if we con- 
trol it, we’ll sure cover space.” 

Avis was figuring. “The Iron Men., won’t 
bother us for another one hundred sixty 
million years,” she announced. 

“What’ll we do then?” asked Fred. 
“That’s a long time,” Len pointed out. 
“Let’s let the younger generation worry 
about it.” He reached for a lever. “Hang 
onto your seats. I’m turning on full power.” 

He shoved the lever over. There was a 
slight lurch. Len watched the speed indi- 
cator and his eyes went wide. “That dial’s 
no good any more. We must have several 
times the speed of light already. It’s just a 
guess, but I’d say we could approach the 
speed of gravitation if we packed enough 
nebulium in ■ the tubes.” 

He sat down and propped up his feet. 
“I’m going to do some surgical work on 
that toenail when we get home,” he said. 

“Do you realize from what Tungsto said, 
we’ve been gone five weeks?” asked Fred 
suddenly. 


CHAPTER XVI 
Marked Man 


OTWITHSTANDING the fact they 
had no way of telling how much actual 
time was used on the way, it seemed only 
a few minutes before the Earth was a great 
tan-colored ball in their viewing-sphere. 
Len Niles sent the ship lower and cut the 
speed until they were floating but a few 
miles above the surface. 

Avis and Fred watched the viewing-sphere, 
appalled at the difference in Earth. There 
had been upheavals and in some places new 
mountain ranges had been born. In others 
deep canyons had rent the crust — canyons 
which made them shudder. But worst of 
all was the ice. 

The north third and south thirds of the 
oceans were solidly covered with ice. Large 
areas of land were sheathed in white. The 
coal mines that had been on the eastern 
coast of America were now far under water 
and the ice over them appeared to be half 
a mile thick. 

“We’d never get down there for fuel,” 
said Fred glumly. 

They found the City of Glass, a tiny black 
dome, half hidden in the twilight, for the 
Sun’s rays here were feeble and, though the 
sky was clear and the Sun at its zenith, it 
was like eternal dusk. 

They floated high until the Sun had gone 
down and the black night had settled over 
the great desert. Off in the north a dull 
phosphorescence from the ice-fields glowed 
and flickered. 

After dark, Len floated the ship down 
quietly and landed a quarter of a mile from 
the Entrance. 

“There are still lights,” whispered Avis 
hopefully. 

“Yes,” said Len. 

They opened the air-lock and were hit 
by a blast of frigid wind. Their short glass 
clothing didn’t protect them very much. 
They held a grim consultation and started 
for the mouth of the „air-tube. 

Then Len heard a shout. Out of the tube 
came Simon, Len’s mother and Philip. They 
hurried across the sand toward the returned 
voyagers. 

Simon shook hands with Len and Fred 
and embraced his daughter. Len’s mother 
spoke severely to him. “Come on in. You’ll 
get cold out here,” 

“All of us who were underground are 



63 


IRON MEN 


staying in the observatory,” Simon ex- 
plained. “The rest of the Nilesmen have 
barricaded themselves in the Inorganic Lab- ' 
oratory, and the Glassmen can’t decide what 
to do. There was a big investigation when 
the ship took off. One of the guards at the 
Entrance saw it.” 

. “How long have we been gone?”' Len 
asked anxiously, walking between his mother 
and the wind. They were all shivering vio- 
lently. 

“About five weeks,” said Simon tonelessly. 
“I suppose you couldn’t land anywhere. 
Well, you haven’t come back to much. The 
Earth as we knew it is gone forever, and we 
have no power, no heat. We’re all doomed. 

I had hoped you three would escape, but, 
anyway, we’re glad to see you.” 

Len Niles couldn’t help smiling. Avis spoke 
excitedly. “But Father, we did land!” 

Simon stared toward her. 

“We landed on Placet G,” she insisted. 

“You couldn’t possibly have got away 
afterward,” Simon said slowly, hoping to. 
hear the proof that they had. 

Len pressed his arm. “We did,” he as- 
sured. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” 

They crowded into the small laboratory. 
Simon seemed to be in a daze. The labora- 
tory was built entirely underground and so it 
wasn’t quite as cold as Len had expected. 

That night Len talked with Simon and said 
just enough to prove to the old scientist that 
they had indeed landed on Planet G. Then 
he asked the question that had been burning 
in his brain. 

“What of our orbit?” 

Simon took a deep breath. “I can’t tell 
yet. The outer planets — Mars, Jupiter, Sa- 
turn, Uranus, Neptune — have all definitely 
left the system, but as for Earth — ” He 
shook his head. “We are almost at the critical 
point— the speed of escape from the Sun,” 
he said wearily. 

“But not quite?” asked Len. 

“Not quite,” said Simon. “That is, I think 
not. It will take another twenty-four hours 
to determine.” 

Len drew a deep breath and began to talk. 
Even Simon, with his tremendous mind, 
could hardly believe the things Len Niles told 
him, but when he saw a tiny sample of nebu- 
lium, and odd, gray-green powder, and saw 
Len demonstrate it, he was thoroughly con- 
vinced. 

Len made a trip to the ship. He lifted it 
and put it down a hundred yards in front of 
the Entrance, set the gravity-pull at a low 
rate, took a supply of nebulium, osmium, and 
actino-uranium with him, and went back to 


the observatory with the substances. 

“We’ll make some gravity-control units,” 
he said. 

“We haven’t any equipment,” Philip ob- 
served. 

“We don’t need much. I have the elements 
here. They’re simple. Crude, maybe, but 
they will work. Watch.” 

By morning some individual repellant units 
were ready, with amusing results. When 
Philip tried his, he was promptly smashed 
to the floor. Len ran to him and changed 
the control, and helped him up. Philip rubbed 
his torso. 

“I feel all bruised and beaten up,” he said. 

A shriek came from Avis, and Len turned 
in time to see Gus Niles, one of the chemistry 
workers, float up to the top of the observa- 
tory and stick there with his head against 
the ceiling and his body wobbling around 
like a toy. He found the controls and floated 
down. 

"Let’s get some sleep,” said Len. “Wake 
me about sundown.” 

At sundown he got up and he and Simon 
and Fred went outside. And then, in spite 
of the cold, Fred laughed. 

Around the ship, clustered like glass-flies 
on a hydroponic orange, were two hundred 
Glassmen, shivering, struggling to get away. 
One pushed himself away from the ship, 
bent far over and took a few steps in the 
sand. He almost succeeded in escaping, but 
suddenly he straightened up like a whip and 
was snapped back against the side of “The 
Nilesman.” 

“I set it for a pull,” Len explained. “Use 
your gravity-repellers and we’ll look them 
over.” 

¥ HE Glassmen were angry, but they were 
silent, too, as the three men walked 
around them. 

“You see they can, if they try hard enough, 
walk a little way,” said Len. “But the pull 
inevitably brings them back. There’s no es- 
cape.” 

They finished the circuit of the ship. 
“What do you plan now?” asked Simon. 
“Nothing — yet.” Len looked around. 
“There isn’t much wind tonight. I think we’ll 
let them spend a night on the desert. They’ll 
make good bait. Kardox isn’t here yet.” 

By morning there were eight hundred 
Glassmen stuck to the ship. They were tight- 
ly packed, and among them was Kardox, his 
lean, angular face gray-green in the pale 
light. 

Len got behind him and helped him away. 
They went to the observatory, and Len sent 



64 STARTLING STORIES 


back for Murco and Darum and Aldo. Aldo 
was still in the City, but he came, avoiding 
the ship. 

“Now will you call a /meeting of the Reg- 
ulating Body?” said Len to Kardox. 

“I have no choice,” said Kardox raspingly. 
He cleared his throat. 

“I proclaim an extraordinary session of the 
Regulating Body,” he said in his crackling 
voice. “Regulator Aldo, will you keep the 
record ?” 

“I will,” said the yellow-tunicked Aldo, 
watching Len Niles. 

Len stood up and bowed slightly to Kar- 
dox. His tallness, his light hair, and his 
bronze skin made him a commanding fig- 
ure. 

“I defer to you,” he said, “as Number One. 
I have a report to make and some sugges- 
tions. Three of us have just returned from 
a visit to another planet and you have seen 
a very slight’ demonstration of the power we 
acquired on that trip.” 

Simon was grimly taking photographic 
plates from his big telescope. 

“We - Nilesmen want to live with and co- 
operate with the Glassmen,” Len went on. 
“We wish no harm to you — but we want to 
be free. We want the opportunity to work 
as much as we desire, to have books, to carry 
on problems, to progress!” 

He continued to address the Council un- 
til Simon came back from the developing 
room. 

Len looked anxiously at him. 

“I have examined the plates,” said Simon, 
“as well as I can. I believe the Earth has 
resumed an orbit around the Sun. We are 
far out, but apparently” — he drew a deep 
breath — “apparently we are no longer pur- 
suing a tangential course.” / ; 

“Thank the stars!” breathed Aldo. 

Kardox bowed his head. 

“Perhaps we have been unduly harsh, but 
now this terrible cold is a peril to us all, “he 
said to Len. “We had best work together. 
I, speaking for myself, am willing to accede 
to any 'reasonable demand. But” — he looked 
up wearily — “we face many problems. First, 
we must have heat or we shall all perish.” 

“I can provide that,” Len said firmly. “We 
have the means of, acquiring unlimited fuel. 
And we can make iron and steel such as 
never were seen on Earth, using silicon as a 
cleanser, and many alloys for different quali- 
ties. v It is possible, even, that iron, as a sub-, 
stitute for glass, will come to pperate almost 
for infinity. But there is one other item — we 
want the odds to be changed on the races 
and in the Black Dome so we can lose.” 


Kardox’ face drew into the rustling dia- 
gonal lines of a smile. 

“It seems,” he said “that if our entire 
economy is to be upset by conditions not in 
our control, your request is a small one. I 
am willing.” He looked around at the green 
faces of the Regulators. They nodded, one 
by one. Kardox turned back to Len. “There 
is,” he said slowly, “one point. Have you any 
plan for converting the Glassmen back to a 
carbon economy? We would like to be nor- 
mal — white of skin.” 

Len faced him squarely. “With unlimited 
power and with dependable machinery, I am 
happy to announce that we can safely rely 
on the fixation of nitrogen — and so there is 
no longer an obstacle to the conversion.” 

Kardox arose and smiled broadly. He 
looked at the Regulators. 

“I have always believed Regulator Len to 
be sincere. I see by your faces that you 
believe that, too. What is your answer?” 

The Regulators all got up. Aldo was beam- 
ing. 

“I vote to give Regulator Len a free hand,” 
said ancient Darum, in his crackling voice. 
“He has saved the City, he has saved the 
race. He has saved— the Earth.” He sat 
down. 

“Regulator Len,” Kardox and Darum had 
called him. Len felt happy as he never had 
before. 

LL voted yes. “Then you may count on 
our cooperation, Regulator Len,” said 
Kardox, seeming well satisfied. “If you can 
do only a part of the things you have prom- 
ised, you will certainly deserve all we can 
give you.” 

“I can,” Len. Niles answered, his voice firm 
with conviction. ... 

And so, that night, Len Niles, Fred, and 
Avis walked through the radial streets of the 
silent City of Glass, with its softly tinted 
domes, its swishing magnetic cars. Avis’ 
pink shoe-heels twinkled as she walked. 

Already Simon was Below in his labora- 
tory, now legalized, with a thought -transmit- 
ter on his head, studying the hand-thinker 
and designing machinery to heat the City 
against the coming Age of Ice. 

They went to the Black Dome, rode to the 
Curved Light Room, and drank Sizzling 
Comets, with little fountains of yellow, red, 
and orange light bursting against their noses. 
Everywhere people were moving, talking, 
laughing. 

Glassmen, Pales and Nilesmen talked and 
drank together. It was a new day for the 
City of Glass. 1 



IRON 

Len, with one arm around Avis, produced 
the hydropones. 

“Fred, one to a thousand, this time,” he 
said. 

He held out the package. A golden-skinned 
Glasswoman came by unsteadily with a com- 
panion. 

Fred looked at Len. “I’ll take it,” he said. 
Len pressed the button. A hydropone popped 
out and burned steadily. 

“Thanks,” said Len. “Here’s your sando.” 

“Don’t mention it,” said Fred. “Now I’ll 
give you a chance to get even. I’ll bet you 
one to five hundred it won’t light.” 

EN stared at him. “That’s a crazy way 
to bet, but I’ll take it.” 

Fred pressed the button. It lighted, but 
Fred didn’t seem disturbed. 

Cheerfully Len paid him twenty-five ni- 
trate disks. 

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” said Fred. “I 
learned something from Father. He blows 
on the hydropone and the carbon dioxide 
in the breath puts it out.” 


MEN , 65 

Len stared again. “Asteroids!” he said. 

Fred put the nitrate disks carefully in his 
pocket, and smiled innocently. 

“Have you by chance forgotten,” he asked, 
“that money is going to be spendable from 
now on?” 

Len’s eyes opened wide and he groaned 
aloud. 

“Life is getting too uncertain,” he said. 

Avis looked up at him, her brown eyes 
shining. “For a man who has just traveled 
the galaxy, and who is the most famous man 
in all the universe, you’re a little absent- 
minded, aren’t you, dear?” 

Len’s arm tightened around her slim waist. 
He looked down at her and grinned. 

“I've proved one thing,” he said. “The 
future of the individual members of a race 
is more important than the future of the race 
itself.” 

The golden-skinned Glasswoman had 
turned and was watching Len intently. 

“That is the man who lost eight hundred 
sandoes the other night!” she said to her 
companion in an admiring whisper. 


COMING IN THE NEXT ISSUE 

RED SUN OF DANGER 



DOES THE ) HO, /GET MY 
MOOH AFFECT ! EFFECT W/TH 
YOU, TOO? \ STARS - 
s STAR BLADES / 


An Astonishing Complete Captain Future Novel 

By 

BRETT STERLING 





Patrol Commander Creg 
Temple Flings a Chal- 
lenge at Witchcraft 
and the Evil Eye! 


the rays from the ceiling, which was 
studded with lights. He was a tall wiry 
man, in his late thirties. A dusting of 
gray at his temples gave him a curious, 




DARK COMMAND 67 

almost ageless look. fears the unknown. Only to men and 

“You’ve got to believe it, sir,” said women, easily thrown off balance by 


Lieutenant John Rickaby. The young 
space officer stood facing his superior on 
the swaying deck of the charthouse. A 
thin ribbon of blood was trickling down 
his chin. 

Temple wiped his forehead with the 
inside of his sleeve. 

“Well, Mister,” he grunted. “Get your- 
self cleaned up, and we’ll see.” 

Rickaby had turned pale. 

“I’m afraid you don’t understand, sir,” 
he protested. “You’ve struck up friend- 
ships with a lot of Martians who haven’t 
knifed you in the back. But now it looks 
as though your luck is wearing thin. 
I < tell you, that tentacled ’ evil devil 
wouldn’t let us come ashore.” 

“Then go on and spill it,” cried 
Temple as Rickaby shuddered and 
averted his gaze. “Let me have the rest.” 

“An old Martian stood on the wharf, 
staring at us, sir,” Rickaby said. “One 
by one my crew knelt down. Before I 
pushed off our men were groveling in 
the boat.” 

Temple’s gaze was inscrutable. “You 
say there were two hundred Martians on 
the wharf, lieutenant?” 

Rickaby nodded. “Yes, but they made 
no attempt to interfere. In fact, sir, I — 
I had a feeling they were egging the ring- 
leader on. The next instant that crea- 
ture wobbled up to the pinnace, _ and 
slapped me in the face. I grabbed the 
controls and came back to the cruiser. 
That slap was hard to take, sir.” 

Temple nodded. 

“Sure it was,” he said. “If you’d 
knocked Fuzzy Brow seven ways to 
Christmas I’d have backed you up. But 
you know how Martians are. Would you 
rather have had it weeping on your 
shoulder?” 

As Temple’s short, harsh laugh 
sounded in the charthouse, Rickaby 
saluted, and withdrew. 

W HEN Temple found himself alone, 
he shuddered. Martians were 
known to possess certain hidden powers. 
But Temple believed they seemed ter- 
rifying to Earthlings only because man 


s auto-suggestion, was there any danger. 

His lips grew stubborn. Arising from 
his desk, he buckled on his rayomatic 
and strode out of the charthouse. In 
the administration cuddy two micro- 
typists, Woman’s Auxiliary Patrol, 
stared at him scornfully. Evidently his 
reputation for forbearance had pene- 
trated the WAP ranks too. 

Temple swore softly arid turned his 
steps in the direction of the radio room. 

In some respects Martians were like 
sensitive children — moody, secretive and 
given to outbursts of irrational rage. 
And even if one admitted that their hid- 
den powers, to say that they could be- 
witch people was sheer tommyrot. The 
Evil Eye — faugh! Black magic? Sheer 
nonsense ! 

Grimly Temple promised himself there 
would be no bloodshed until he was sure, 
even if it meant losing his command and 
the respect of every man and woman in 
the colony. He just couldn’t picture him- 
self shooting down on those child-like 
Martians. 

Neither could he picture himself mak- 
ing war on his old friend, Lig Narun. 
Striding into the radio room Temple 
crossed to the visual sending apparatus. 
He dismissed the operator with a curt 
nod, sat down, and thumbed through a 
lead-backed code-book until he came to 
the emergency call number of the oldest 
and wisest ruler on the ruddy planet. 

It was Temple’s conviction that Lig 
Narun would keep nothing back. If 
there was some sinister conspiracy afoot, 
Lig Narun would know how to deal with 
it. For ten years Lig Narun had worked 
in the closest cooperation with Earth- 
lings. More important, he admired and 
respected Temple and had never broken 
his pledged word. 

But though Temple had no misgivings, 
the instant the old Martian’s pea-green 
face appeared on the visual reception 
disk, he knew that something was wrong. 

“Ah, Temple, my friend, it is good to 
see you,” Lig Narun said in a tone which 
chilled Temple. Lig Narun did not seem 
cordial. His facial muscles twitched 



68 STARTLING STORIES 


and his eyes bulged, and then receded 
into their cavernous sockets. Like all 
Martians he was not handsome. The yel- 
low fluff of hair on his brow made him 
resemble an embryonic chicken. 

“It’s good to see you, Lig Narun,”. 
Temple answered. ' 

“Temple, you look worried,” came 
from the disk. The tone implied Lig 
Narun wanted to terminate the inter- 
view. 

“I’m worried, all right,” Temple ad- 
mitted. “An hour ago when one of my 
lieutenants tried to go ashore, he was 
stopped at the wharf by a Martian. It’s 
ridiculous, of course, but there has been 
talk l of sorcery, hauntings, and even 
some gossip about the Evil Eye.” 

Lig Narun looked stunned. There was 
a moment of silence. Then the Martian 
spoke in tones of astonishment. 

“You mean we are thought to possess 
supernatural powers?” 

“Not necessarily supernatural,” 
Temple answered. “W.e Earthlings don’t 
believe in such things any more. But 
our caveman ancestors used to look be- 
yond the firelight and imagine the dark- 
ness was filled with all manner of evil 
shapes — demons, warlocks, vampires, 
ghouls. And some Earthlings- haven’t 
lost their caveman fears.” 

“I don’t follow you, Temple.” 

“Well, we dread the unknown. And 
to a few of us, Mars is like the darkness 
beyond the firelight, Lig Narun.” 

“But it is not an unexplored wilder- 
ness,” the Martian demurred. “You’ve 
colonized two-thirds of the planet.” 

“That’s why we don’t want such 
legends to grow,” said Temple. “Super- 
stition springs from a dark subsoil deep 
within our minds. We must prune it and 
keep it . puny.” 

PgpEMPLE paused. He felt that he had 
to phrase what he was about to say 
carefully. He didn’t want it to sound 
like a threat. 

“I don’t know what really happened 
on the wharf, Lig Narun. Perhaps my 
lieutenant was overwrought. But surely 
you must realize the incident was un- 
fortunate.” 


Lig Narun returned Temple’s stare. 

“Temple, I’ll look into it,” he said. 
“You have my promise.” ■' 

There was nothing more Temple 
wanted to say. Frowning he watched 
Lig Narun’s image recede in a nebulous 
glimmering. The Commander’s uneasi- 
ness had increased tenfold. The Mar- 
tian’s manner implied he meant to “look 
into it” all right, but that the affair was 
proceeding in a satisfactory fashion. 

When Temple emerged on the deck of 
the Patrol cruiser, his fists were clenched 
and he carried himself with a fatalistic 
air. The cruiser was swinging at anchor 
close to the west bank of the short Point 
Barter Canal, which twisted like a water- 
moccasin in and out over the bleak Mar- 
tian landscape. 

Though the gleaming lights of the dis- 
tant Alpha Colony were visible, they 
only emphasized an impression of all- 
engulfing desolation. Even the sky 
seemed to. scowl menacingly as the Patrol 
officer went ashore in a ship’s boat over 
the darkly swirling tides and; sprang to 
one of the spray-lashed jetties with one 
swift leap. 

He paused only long enough to 
straighten his service cap, and pack some 
fresh tobacco in his pipe. As he tamped 
the tobacco down, the blue and yellow 
lights of a canalside tavern drifted out 
over his tall, stationary bulk, giving him 
something of the aspect of an avenging 
Nemesis. Yet as he strode toward the 
tavern, there was in him only bitter 
despair. His dream of Colonial Office 
amity had been shattered overnight. 

Shattered overnight. Temple started, 
and swung about. From behind him had 
come the ominous, unmistakable droning 
of a Martian observation dirigible bal- 
loon approaching the wharf from some- 
where overhead. 

He stood still, gnawing at his under- 
lip, and searched the pall which ob-' 
scured the distant outlines of the patrol 
cruiser in the canal. 

He had no way of knowing the course 
of the balloon. He only knew it was 
traveling rapidly and at a high altitude. 
Then, from the luminous disk of his 
wrist-radio, a harsh voice spoke. 



DARK COMMAND 69 


“Commander — Commander Temple. 
Commander, Commander Temple.” 

“Yes,” Temple said, raising the tiny 
instrument. “What is it?” 

“This is Lieutenant Rickaby speaking 
from the bridge,” came from the disk. 
“Sir, a Martian balloon is passing di- 
rectly overhead. It’s blacked out by 
glare-refractors, but we can see it in the 
infra-beam.” 

“I can hear it,” Temple replied. “It‘s 
coming toward the wharf?” 

“It was, but it’s veering now,” 
Rickaby replied in an anxious voice. 
“It’s moving back toward the east 
bank. Sir, it has cut our propulsion 
field.” 

Consternation swept over the patrol 
commander. “It did what?” 

“Cut our field, sir. Shall I order the 
forward batteries to open up?” 

“No, but tell the gun crew to stand by.” 
Temple choked — and stopped. 

From the cruiser there had come a 
dull boom, followed by a blinding 
flash of light. 

A convulsive shudder shook Temple. 
He shut his eyes, visualizing a Martian 
balloon bursting into flames, and the 
scorched bodies of its pilots being swept 
like chaff toward the east bank of the 
canal. 

“The gun captain fired, sir!” came in 
a groan from his wrist. “He misunder- 
stood a signal, from the bridge!” 

P ROMPTLY Temple brought the 
the wrist-radio flush with his lips. 
“Stop him!” he shouted. “Did he. hit 
the balloon?” 

“No, sir,' he missed. And the balloon’s 
out of gunnery range now, sir. We’d 
have to use the arc mortars to bring it 
down.” 

“That’s lucky.” 

“Yes, sir. But — they cut our field!” 
There was a fierce insistence in 
Rickaby’s voice, as though he had found 
new evidence of a yellow streak running 
up his commander’s spine. 

Temple’s jaw muscles squared. 
“Lieutenant?” 

“Yes.” 

“Install the new Luxton propulsion 


field units immediately. Televise every 
ship in the fleet that every atom-motor 
in the fleet is to be capped with Luxton 
transformers. There isn’t a beam on^ 
Mars can cut the Luxton field.” 

“Yes, sir. But what about those pre- 
vious orders?” 

“I know, I know,” Temple barked. 
“The Admiralty instructed us to in- 
stall the new field units next week. But 
this is an emergency. We’re installing 
them immediately. I don’t like you ques- 
tioning my decisions, Lieutenant.” 

There ensued a silence. When Rickaby 
spoke again something seemed to move 
in his voice, as though he were swal- 
lowing an impediment. 

“Very good, sir” 

Temple swore softly, swung about, 
and advanced toward the tavern in long, 
angry strides. 

Of one thing he was certain. If the 
Martians were seriously endeavoring to 
keep Patrol officers from coming ashore 
they had failed, for the tavefn was 
ablaze with light. When Temple came 
from chilly dampness into warmth, 
youngsters a month out of training 
school eyed him with interest. 

Despite the recent tarnish which had 
crept over his reputation, Temple was 
still an almost legendary figure to the 
younger members of his command. As 
he 'headed for the circular bar his eyes 
sparkled and his chin came .up- Their 
admiration gave him a sense of solidarity 
with his far-flung command more stimu- 
lating than the highballs which he im- 
mediately began to stow away. 

One — two — three — hiccough — 
four. He was setting the men a bad 
example, but he needed as much warmth 
as he could pack between his ribs this 
night. His friends, those big, tentacled, 
goggle-eyed infants, the Martians, had 
let him down. . 

“And he called for wilder music and 
stronger wine,” a mocking voice said. 
“It’s one way of forgetting, I suppose.” 

Temple turned slowly, keeping his 
elbow parked on the bar and blinking 
under the cold light from the low tavern 
ceiling. Buried under fifteen years of 
discipline, Temple’s temper still had the 



70 STARTLING STORIES 


1 power to flare up at the drop of a hat. . 
Lieutenant John Rickaby had follpwfed 
his superior ashore. His service cap was 
tilted at an insulting angle. 

The hostility between the two men 
was so intense even the youngsters 
sensed it now. They had never seen 
Temple with his temper blazing at white 
heat. But they had heard rumors — ex- 
citing rumors. 

With calm deliberation Temple sat 
down his glass and looked Rickaby up 
and down. 

“So!” he said. 

He struck out savagely. Rickaby went 
spinning clear across the tavern. A 
dozen marine non-coms leaped to their 
feet in startled consternation. The 
young space officer collided with a table 
and thudded to the floor in a heap. 
Upon Rickaby’s features was frozen a / 
look of alarmed surprise. 

^ T H LENCE followed. Then Temple 
crushed his empty glass to splinters 
with a blow of his big fist. The non- 
coms were standing rigidly at atten- 
tion. 

All of them except one, a tall, pale 
youth with two chevrons on his sleeve. 
His eyes were so cold they seemed to 
congeal the air directly in front of him. 
Leaving the table at which he had been 
seated, he lurched unsteadily toward the 
Patrol commander. 

“What do you want, corporal?” 
Temple spoke coldly. “Go back. there 
and sit down.” 

Temple’s words died. The eyes of 
the reeling lad had locked with his in 
a terrible, probing stare. The eyes were 
full of light, and yet they seemed some- 
how sea-cold and opaque, as though an 
alien and evil intelligence was staring at 
Temple through the windows of a bor- 
rowed brain. 

In vain Temple struggled against the 
awful glare. With growing horror he 
tried, by sheer strength of will, to force 
the fixed eyes to swerve away in defeat. 
Madly he strove to overcome the grow- 
ing fear that gnawed at his vitals. 

Those eyes did not waver. Pupils, 
black like holes in a skull, continued to 


pour forth concentrated venom. He 
scarcely noticed the lad’s hand come up, 
or the gleaming rayomatic pistol which 
jutted from his fist. Temple saw only 
the ice-cold eyes of a baby-faced killer 
who refused to avert his stare. 

Torture! Physical torture can be 
something almost unendurable. But 
what Temple now experienced was in- 
finitely worse. He encountered the tor- 
ment of an inhuman intelligence bring- 
ing its enmity to bear in a way that 
seemed to suck at the marrow in his 
bones. 

The rayomatic menaced Temple’s 
forehead. The youth’s face twitched. 
His whole frame shook, as though the 
inhabiting intelligence was having diffi- 
culty controlling the reflexes of the 
borrowed body it was using to slay with. 

Temple’s eyes grew wild. Vaguely 
he realized the fathomless abyss yawn- 
ing beneath him, an abyss as deep as 
the measureless gulfs of space. 

Then, with a thunderous roar, the 
abyss disappeared. In a flash of blind- 
ing light he saw the youth again. The 
rayomatic had dropped from his palsied 
hand and he was sagging back against 
the bar. Then he slumped to the floor, 
his face a vacant mask faintly rimmed 
with light. The same instant the Patrol 
Commander felt steely fingers biting 
into his shoulder. 

“I deserved that sock,” a husky voice 
said. “But you must realize now, sir, 
what we’re up against. That lad was 
possessed. Demoniac possession! 1 
saw it in his eyes the instant I picked 
myself up.” 

Temple turned slowly. Rickaby stand- 
ing beside him, with a bruised and swol- 
len jaw, as he ejected a radiation cart- 
ridge from a regulation paralysis blaster. 
Despite what had happened there was no 
bitterness in his voice. 

The Patrol Commander’s face did not 
soften. 

“Lieutenant Rickaby,” he said, after a 
pause. “I’ve been grooved into an pat- 
tern by an oath. It’s called the Martian 
Command and its parts are mutually 
interdependent. By insulting me, you 
were insulting your own uniform.” 



DARK COMMAND 71 


Then he smiled at Rickaby. “I did drink 
a few whiskies. I put them away to help 
me endure the fatigue of a short tramp 
across the desert I am compelled to 
make.” 

“I understand, sir,” Rickaby gulped. 
Commander Temple glanced at the 
crumpled figure by the bar. 

“He’s not dead?” 

“I don’t think so, sir,” Rickaby re- 
plied. “They say that demonaic posses- 
sion doesn’t permanently harm the vic- 
tim. When the paralysis wears off he’ll 
be wondering what hit him.” 

R ICKABY’S eyes challenged 
Temple. “We’ll have to strike 
back now, sir — with everything we’ve 
got!” 

Temple nodded. “We will, Lieu- 
tenant. Now get that poor devil over 
to the Sick Bay and stand by until you 
hear from me.” 

Commander Temple left the tavern. 
His fists were clenched with anger in 
the pockets of his service jacket and 
there was the dry taste of fury in his 
mouth. 

“All right, Lig Narun,” he muttered. 
“You asked for it and you’re going to 
get it.” 

Fifteen miles of arid, thorn-choked 
desert stretched between the Alpha 
Colony and the cylindrical stone tower 
where Lig Narun dwelt with his mate 
and tentacled offspring. 

Temple covered the entire distance on 
foot. He arrived with his uniform 
caked with dust, his face a mask of sand 
and blood. As he stumbled up the last, 
high, wind-swept dune between the 
desert and the tower, his deepset eyes 
were slitted. His temper boded ill for 
anyone crossing his path and attempt- 
ing to hinder his grim purpose. Friend 
or foe — anyone. 

In the pale light of dawn the white 
tower resembled a giant’s thumb pro- 
truding from a wilderness of sand. A 
film misted his vision, for he was tired, 
yet fierce rage drove him on. 

He gave no thought to his own safety. 
Forces hostile to human life on Mars 
must be destroyed. He did not share 


Rickaby’s belief that Martians pos- 
sessed supernatural powers. But there 
were other powers — telepathy, clair- 
voyance, and hypnosis so deep it could 
burn the brain like an etcher’s acid. 
Had Martians discovered that thoughts 
could kill? 

Temple was in black shadow now. 
Keeping his hand on his rayomatic, 
he advanced along the east side of the 
tower, seeking the narrow gap through 
which he had once passed as a guest. 
Martians did not shut doors or draw 
bolts. They were truculently resentful 
of anything which subtly menaced their 
freedom. 

A chilling sound, as if someone were 
smacking his lips directly behind him, 
made Temple swing about. But no one 
was in sight. 

He found the gap and entered the 
tower. He did not dread the dismal in- 
terior so much as an intangible some- 
thing that lurked without. 

The interior of Lig Narun’s abode was 
vast and dismal. Temple advanced with 
caution, creeping diagonally from a 
patch of darkness to the lowermost step 
of a circular stone staircase which 
spiraled up into shadows. 

He mounted slowly. 

At first he did not see the light, so 
elusive were it’s shifting outlines. Then, 
gradually, the gleam brightened and 
spread. From its luminous core a 
woman’s face grew, taking on substance 
slowly. An alabaster forehead came into 
view, wreathed in coppery hair, and lips 
parted in the faintest suggestion of a 
smile. 

Her eyes were so soft and deeply blue 
that they filled Temple with a tender, 
throbbing pain. Finally he could see her 
form, graceful and lovely. 

At the time it seemed only natural 
that he should find her here in this 
empty waste on Mars. He had known 
her all the years of his life, and yet he 
had never once taken her into his arms. 
For how can a man embrace his own sub- 
conscious image of all a woman could be 
if she is fairer than any creature who 
walks the earth? 

He knew her name and spoke it aloud, 



72 ' STARTLING STORIES 


falling to his knee on the staircase and 
stretching out his arms. 

“Lilith!” he whispered. 

A WILD burst of mocking laughter 
echoed from the shadows overhead. 
The light vanished. He looked upward, 
and, saw them — Lig Narum’s tentacled 
offspring hiding at the top of the stair- 
case. In their midst crouched the great 
old Martian’s mate. Her round octo- 
poidal body was quivering with ma- 
licious mirth and the words she flung 
at him increased his terrible frustra- 
tion. 

“That was no living woman, but the 
image of your desire, Earthling,” she 
said in taunting accents. “Did you think 
you might clasp it — in your enemy’s 
house?” 

“You — you she-devil !” Temple choked. 
So keen was his disappointment that 
for an instant Lig Narun’s offspring 
seemed to draw closer together, as 
though, they feared punishment daring 
to inflict such anguish upon an Earth- 
ling. - 

Lig Narun’s mate raised her milk- 
white tentacles and waved them. 

“If you would speak with your foe,” 
she shrilled, “you must follow him into 
the black night of space. You thought 
us weak and primitive because we had 
no ships. But now we are as strong as 
you. Lig Narun has taken your fastest 
ship, Earthling, while you were grovel- 
ing on your knees like a mewling fool. 
If you wish to talk to him he will 
answer you— from the mouth of arc 
mortars.” 

For an instant Temple stared in slack- 
jawed incomprehension. 

“Then this is all a trick so Lig Narun 
could run off with our fastest space 
ship?” 

“Yes, the armored cruiser Aries . I 
knew you would come here. Did I not 
look- at you in the tavern through the 
eyes of an Earthling who tried to slay 
you? My beloved mate needed time, 
time. I helped him with all my 
strength.” 

Temple’s hand had gone to his rayo- 
matic. But he did not draw it. Instead, 


he swung about and dashed out of the 
tower. 

He had all the pieces now. They 
made a grim pattern of deceit and black 
treachery. The Martians had pre- 
vented ‘ Rickaby from going ashore to 
stir up trouble. Then Lig Narun’s mate 
had tried to kill Temple by means of a 
hypnotized boy. Although they had not 
foreseen Temple would rush to the 
tower, Lig Narum had been able to^take 
advantage, of the confusion caused by 
the Patrol Commander’s absence to run 
off with the fastest cruiser in the Sys- 
tem! 

For three days and nights, now, across . 
eight billion miles of space Commander 
Temple had fought exhaustion and de- 
spair. He had fought these things 
when his weary eyes closed and he had 
forced them open again with his 
knuckles. He had battled them with 
knees drawn up in sharp angles of tor- 
ment. He wondered if peace would 
come when he was dead. 

He no longer cared much whether he 
lived or died, but he did not propose 
to lose the ship in a ridiculous pocket 
between asteroids. The control room 
was riddled. A great drenching mantle 
of' meteor dust was settling down over 
him. His hands were numb and— he had 
ceased firing. 

Lig Narun hadn’t. In the armored 
cruiser ^4rj'es some battle-scarred Mar- 
tians were methodically testing instru- 
ments to see if they still functioned, 
while others still were hurling tons of 
molten metal at him through recoiling 
arc mortars. 

Temple had blasted away at the other 
ship across three thousand miles of 
space, dismantling its steering vanes 
and pitting its translucent hull with 
swirling craters of flame. 

He had lost his command man by man. 
They had gone down fighting, dropping 
over in an emergency blast port six 
feet equare. The port could only hold 
one person at a time. 

The crew members had stepped up 
briskly, opening a star door and letting 
the former occupant of the port slide 



DARK COMMAND 73 


out into the void. There had been no 
time for burial service or a lowering 
of the colors. 

NE by one the men who worked the 
arc mortars had perished in a swirl 
of flame. Rickaby had been last to 
crumple up. Yet he had continued to 
fire until the breath left his body. Now 
Temple was alone, caught in a seething 
suction vortex between two little as- 
teroids scarcely seven miles in diameter. 

A pair of jagged, iron-black rocks, 
revolving about each other eight billion 
miles from the Sun. The Patrol Com- 
mander’s field intensity sights had told 
him all he needed to know about the 
small, binary system which was sending 
his outer gravity plates clanking into 
the void. 

Two asteroids of nearly equal bulk, 
revolving in an eccentric orbit, could 
splinter an armored cruiser from stem 
to stern and fuse the fragments into 
chunks of glowing metal. 

Fighting his weariness Temple stared 
at his big hands and flexed his stubby 
fingers. Grimly he promised himself 
that if the ship didn’t crack up he’d 
climb out on the nearest of the two 
asteroids, and use those digits to put 
new life into his legs. He could do 
that by massaging the flesh under his 
knees, which had tightened up like the 
hide of a crocodile. 

He had to admit that Lig Narun had 
courage. The Aries was closer to the 
jagged asteriods than his own fire- 
gutted cruiser, but from every port in its 
'smoking hull arc mortars thundered. 

Savagely he told himself that he’d die 
fighting. The crackup of the enemy 
ship came suddenly. A flaming rose 
blossomed in the darkness, and then 
withered slowly. It was difficult to tell 
whether the hull broke or melted, so 
blinding was the glare. 

Temple’s face grew somber. A hairy 
form had come hurtling against the 
visiport, its milk-white tentacles out- 
flung. For a brief instant the implica- 
tions of that failed to register in 
Temple’s consciousness. When it did, a 
cry which rasped from his throat. It 


was drowned out by the screech of a re- 
volving landing keel, and a shattering 
crash as his body shot forward. 

A few moments later when Temple 
picked himself up, his senses were still 
reeling from the shock and there was 
a roaring in his ears. 

“No funeral expenses,” he thought. 
“They won’t have to bury Lig Narun, 
and I’ll be with him when Charon 
pushes off. It seems a pity when we 
might have died friends. He’s just a big, 
rough child, but I can’t let the Service 
down now. If he’s alive I’ll find him 
and when I do, it’ll be curtains.” 

With grim deliberation the Patrol 
Commander thumped at his knees to re- 
store the circulation. Flexibility re- 
turned to his limbs in slow, painful 
stages. Then he crossed to the controls. 
Tests showed they still worked. “Well, 
how do you like that! The juice is still 
on and there’s enough U-two-thirty-five 
in the generators to lift her off this 
asteroid.” 

He tried out the anti-grav disks by 
manipulating a rheostat with clumsy 
fingers. The disks were all right. So 
he decided to start searching the craggy 
surface of the asteroid for Lig Narun, 
at once. y - 

First he strapped a cold light lamp 
to his wrist and clamped on an oxygen 
mask. The ship was resting on a jagged 
granite outcropping, beneath a cliff wall 
honeycombed with luminous caverns. 
Emerging through the thrumming 
gravity locks, Temple gripped a spanner 
bar with both hands, and lowered him- 
self to the ledge by arching his long 
body backward. 

On both sides of him the spongy dark- 
ness seemed to soak up radiance, the 
better perhaps to mold itself into enor- 
mous shadow shapes. Gargoylesque ani- 
mals and gigantic human forms seemed 
to tower evanescently in the gloom be- 
yond the wide swath of light cut by his 
wrist lamp. 

AUTIOUSLY he moved forward 
until the jagged recks beneath him 
began to shift, and he found himself 
swaying to and fro like one on a raft. 



STARTLING STORIES 


He was hugging, the cliff wall and 
tugging at his gravity belt when a 
large, hard and flat rock from the 
precipice above struck him a glancing 
blow on the forehead. With a startled 
cry he swung about. He missed his 
footing, and went sliding over the out- 
cropping into the void. 

How he caught himself he never 
knew. He was painfully aware of a 
hard, cold surface cutting into his 
palms as he hung on. Space tensions 
ripped and tore at him when h»' tried 
in vain to lift himself to safety. There 
was nothing beneath him excepC .pace. 

LOWLY his hands began to grow 
, numb. He knew, then, he couldn’t 
hold on much longer. How could anyone 
last long anyway in this awful cold. 

Something cold and stringy slithered 
around his body, and tightened like a 
noose. The next instant that something 
was, lifting him up while his. senses 
swam dizzily. 

Up and up, over the ledge to safety he 
was drawn. Then he realized that 
stringy object was a white tentacle. He 
was laid flat on the ledge and the ten- 
tacle uncoiled from about him. The 
birdlike face of Lig Narun gazed tear- 
fully down at Temple. 

“You’ll be all right in a moment,” a 
grief-choked voice said. “Keep quiet. 
Ah, Temple, my friend, I am sorry.” 

Temple closed his eyes in bewilder- 
ment. What did this mean? 

He opened them j again. Beside him 
squatted a great, hairy body surmounted 
by a lolling head. Temple’s heart began 


to beat fast. Death loomed near. 

“Temple, I wish that I might die a 
thousand deaths,” the old Martian 
sobbed. “My body deserves to be' con- 
sumed and my ashes cast to the void. I 
am not fit to shake the hand of a man 
like you.” 

Slowly, painfully Temple’s faculties 
steadied. He saw his enemy plainly — 
saw the tired old body, bent with grief, 
the fluff of hair on its brow, and the 
great, cavernous eyes, like smoke-filled 
meteor pits. 

“You saved my life,” Temple said 
faintly. “Why, Lig Narun? Why — 
when you hated me so?” 

“Temple, you were always my friend,” 
the Martian replied. “I have never 
hated you.” 

Temple stared at him as if he hadn’t 
heard aright. This didn’t make sense. 
It didn’t add up. 

“Then why did you make all that 
trouble?” 

“Your propulsion field drive was 
crippling our offspring.” 

Temple gazed at the Martian in 
amazement. 

“I never knew about it,” said the com- 
mander. “For months your atom-mo- 
tors gave off infra-radiant, vibrations 
which arrested our younglings’ growth. 
We would have become a race of crip- 
ples. We thought you knew.” 

Lig Narun saw the horror in Temple’s 
expression. Fresh tears started from 
the old Martian’s eyes. 

“Temple; I did not know that you 
had re-capped your atom-motors. I did 
( Continued on page 99 ) 


Can’t Keep Grandma 

In Her Cfiair 

She’s as Lively as a Youngster — Nov/ her Backache is better 


Many sufferers relieve nagging backache quick- 
ly, once they discover that the real cause of their 
trouble may be tired kidneys. 

The kidneys are Nature’s chief way of taking 
the excess acids and waste out of the blood. They 
help most people pass about S pints a day. 

When disorder of kidney function permits 
poisonous matter to remain in your blood, it 
may cause nagging backache, rheumatic pains, 
asg pains, loss of pep and energy, getting up 


nights, swelling, puffiness under the eyes, head- 
aches and dizziness. Frequent or scanty passages 
with smarting and burning sometimes shows 
there is something wrong with your kidneys or 
bladder. 

Don’t wait! Ask your druggist for Doan’s Pills, 
used successfully by millions for over 40 years. 
They give happy ^relief and will help the 15 miles 
of kidney tubes flush out poisonous waste from 
your blood. Get Doan’s Pills. 


(Adv.), 



Thumbnail Sketches of Great Men and Achievements 
By OSCAR J. FRIEND 

THE SHIP OF THE FUTURE 

Captain Frank Whittle Designs Jet-Propulsion 


T HE little boy watched intently as the 
man puffed his cheeks and filled the toy 
balloon with air. His earnest eyes 
seemed to grow wider with each momentary 
swelling of the thin rubber sphere. 

“Now, watch!” said the man as he held the 
balloon poised and then released it. 

The boy laughed in delight as the balloon 
darted erratically about, shrinking with a sort 
of Bronx-cheer noise as it was propelled 
through the air by its own air exhaust. 

“I want to do it!” exclaimed the child, 
pouncing on the deflated little rubber sac. 
“Why does it do that. Uncle? What makes 
it fly?” 

“That is a sort of self-propulsion business, 
Frankie,” explained the man gravely. “It is 
hard to explain to a little boy, but it is a 
counterr-force. When you throw a ball real 
hard you fall back from the effort. That, in 
a way, is what happens to the balloon. It 
throws the air away through its tail and falls 
away in flight on the opposite side.” 

“Is that what makes airships go?” asked 
Frankie. 

“No, they use propellers to drive them- 
selves through the . air — but this principle 
might some day be used at that. Why not?” 

The boy looked a bit puzzled as he puffed 
his cheeks to blow up the balloon, and then 
promptly forgot the matter in the delight of 
playing in this new way with the toy. 

But little Frank Whittle did not really for- 
get this little talk. As the years rolled by 
and aviation grew up, the idea recurred to 
him many times. He became intensely inter- 
ested in aerodynamics, a typically air-minded 
British youth. 

While still in his teens he joined the R.A.F. 
as an apprentice. He showed such remarkable 
aptitude and produced such unusual designs 
in aerodynamics tfyat he was diverted from ac- 
tive service and sent to a training college at 
Cranwell. He finished there in 1928 with the 
highest award in aeronautical sciences. 

He was now a plane designer and an aero- 
nautical engineer and still a very young man, 
but he was trained to work with wings and air 
propellers. Plane design was improving, mo- 
tors were improving, fuel was improving — 
but men still flew much in the style and pat- 
tern set by the Wright brothers at Kitty Hawk 
in 1903. 


There was a limit to the speed at which a 
plane could fly. Of course, this limit had not 
yet been reached in 1928, but it was mathe- 
matically calculable. 

At certain altitudes and beyond certain 
prop revolutions the propeller could not “bite” 



CAPTAIN FRANK WHITTLE 


the thin air successfully or build up com- 
pressed air around the propeller so that the 
blades would only spin, without exerting ex- 
tra pulling force. Could anything be done to 
overcome this difficulty of physics? 

Then Frank Whittle went to Cambridge 
University for further study. It was while 
here that he got to discussing aeronautics of 
evenings with four friends — Johnson, Wing 
Commander Lees, Tiriling and Williams. 
Whittle recalled the childhood experiment 
with the penny balloon, and he now enlarged 
upon it. 

“Hero of Alexandria invented the steam 
turbine more than two thousand years ago,” 



he declared. “But he never put it to any good 
use. It remained a scientific toy until -the 
coming of the turbine engine. But nature 
beat us all with jet propulsion methods. 
Clams and squids have been squirting streams 
of water to propel themselves ever since the 
Paleozoic Age.”' 1 

“Just what are you getting at, Frank?” 
asked one of the group with a frown. 

“This I” said Whittle, taking the plunge. 
“If jet propulsion works with water, why 
wouldn’t it work with air— or gas?” 

“Old stuff,” said one. “You refer to the 
exploding rocket principle, of course.” 

“But I don’t,” said Whittle decisively. “I 
mean the steady flow of gas ejection to push 
a plane along — sort of like a deflating bal- 
loon.” 

“By Jove!” exclaimed Commander Lees. 
“Maybe you have the inkling of an idea there, 
Frank. What would you use for fuel?” 

“Perhaps petrol combined with liquid air 
and fired through a stern tube. It would 
mean a radical departure in plane construc- 
tion, but I believe it could be done.” 

Tinling and Williams, former R.A.F. men 
themselves,: were now operating a small but 
successful business together. They became 
quite enthusiastic over the idea. 

.“You design such a plane, Frank,” they 
said, “and we’ll raise the money to finance the 
building of a flight ship.” 

“Gentlemen, you have made yourselves a 
proposition,” said Whittle tersely. 

In 1930 Frank Whittle applied for and re- 
ceived a patent on a jet engine which he called 
the Gyrone. It worked, and the model plane 
built about it also worked. But government 
agencies and even private industry are very 
hard to convince upon matters of radical de- 
partures from the accustomed way of doing 
things. 

Industrialist and capitalist, one- after the 
■ other', turned Whittle’s whistling contraption 
down. It was still full of bugs, propeller ships 
! were improving -daily, nobody would ever 
•'want to fly as fast as Whittle claimed his new 
type of plane would eventually go, the fuel 
waste was extravagant, and so on. 

Finally Whittle gave up in disgust and tried 
no further. The R. A. F. was keeping him 
very busy on test flights about now, anyway. 
So the jet-propulsion plane lay fallow because 
hide-bound conservatives couldn’t see the ad- 
vantages of developing high air speeds. 

Then came the stirring of the Blitzkrieg in 

AN ANGEL 

The Amazing Career of 

£1HE was only twenty-three years old, an 
. Australian “bush nurse” that night in 
1910 when she stood by the^ bedside of a 
little girl child and surveyed the pain-racked 
body with puzzled eyes. But Elizabeth Kenny 
came from strong pioneer stock, the daughter 
of Scotch-Irish parents, with strong religious 
background and imbued with dauntless cour- 
age. 

She had wanted to become a missionary, 
and her old friend and mentor, Dr. John Mc- 
Donnell. at Toowoomba, had told her that 
missionaries must know how to nurse. 

The missionary idea was lost in the in- 


Europe. A madman with a shoebrush mustache , 
who was no longer funny was doing incredible 
things in Germany. The Messerschmitt 109 
was out-flying all other types of planes in the 
arena of the Spanish civil war, doing well 
over three hundred miles per hour. 

. So the aircraft industry became uneasy, and 
attention was turned again to Captain Frank 
Whittle and his dream ship which could de- 
velop unheard of air speed. 

His friends became active again and or- 
ganized a company called Power Jets, Ltd., 
and installed Group Captain Whittle with 
some assistants in an old disused factory in a 
factory town. 

Now Whittle went to work in earnest, while 
Hitler rolled across Europe and nations fran- 
tically tried to overtake the Luftwaffe, and 
airplane speeds built up to the incredible 
heights of better than four hundred miles per 
hour. 

Problem after problem came up, to be met 
head on and grimly defeated. Frank Whittle 
constantly improved his jet engine, advancing 
many designs which are still under the ban 
of military • secrecy. However, there came ' 
the bright May day that Flight Lieutenant 
Sayer made the first test flight of the Whittle 
plane in southern England. 

A sleek fuselage, a pair of wings, no whirl- 
ing prop at. all, and built closer to the ground. 
That' was Frank Whittle’s' plane. Instead of 
using liquid oxygen to be mixed with fuel in 
a combustion chamber, the Whittle design 
simply drew air in at the nose of the ship, 
compressed it, heated it and then mixed it 
with fuel injected into a special central cham- 
ber to be ignited and blasted out through a 
rear nozzle. 

Lieutenant Sayer started his engine. The 
only sound audible was a whistling like that 
of a giant tea-kettle on the hob. The queer 
craft rolled across the grass at a steadily 
mounting pace, took off and soared up into the 
blue. For twenty minutes it maneuvered 
beautifully and then returned safely to earth. 

The toy balloon principle was here and now' 
vindicated for all time. By September of 
1941 the Whittle engine was sent to America 
and in less than one year tests, and test flights 
were under way in the United States. 

Scarcely thirty-seven years old today, 
Group Captain Frank Whittle of the R.A.F. 
has revolutionized the airplane industry and 
has perhaps supplied the first practical model 
of the space rocket ship of the future! 

RUSHES IN 

Sister Elizabeth Kenny 

tricacies of nursing people back to health. 
She spent eight years studying anatomy in 
order to help her invalid brother regain the 
use of his limbs. And now here , she was, 
strictly on her own in the Australian hinter- 
land known as the “outback” country. 

In this dimly lighted room she looked down 
upon a type of sickness known to the natives 
as “cow disease.” People just took a fever . 
and went lame. 

This was Elizabeth Kenny’s first personal 
experience with the disease. She studied the 
symptoms carefully and then sent an urgent 
message to Dr. McDonnell, describing the ill- 



ness and asking for instructions. 

Dr. McDonnell easily recognized the dis- 
ease as poliomyelitis, or infantile paralysis, 
for which there was no known preventative or 
cure. A doctor could only try to allay suf- 
fering and then, if he could, prevent the 
crippling after-effects by immobilization of 
the affected muscles according to conventional 
treatment. So Dr. McDonnell wired back: 

.“Symptoms you describe indicate infantile 
paralysis. Use your best observation and 
judgment with symptoms presenting them- 
selves.” 

What use was it to telegraph a history of 
the disease to the struggling nurse? Why 
explain that it was a virus infection which at- 
tacked the spinal cord and that the crippling ' 
effect depended on how badly the cord was 
deteriorated? 

Thus, armed only with her vigorous youth, 
her determination to relieve human suffering 
and her faith in God, Elizabeth Kenny rolled 
up her sleeves to attack the, to her, strange 
and unknown enemy that medical books called 
poliomyelitis. She had at hand only the sim- 
plest of things with which, to work. So she 
proceeded to use them. 

At the very outset her sharp nurse’s eyes 
noted one thing all the medical men hereto- 
fore seemed to have overlooked. The victim 
had spasmic pain and contraction of muscles. 
How to relieve this condition? 

“Get me some hot water,” she directed the 
distraught parents. “Towels — or tear up a 
blanket. Make haste.” 

For hours this brave girl wetted squares of 
torn blanket, wrung them out and applied the 
hot, damp cloths to the aching limbs of the 
child sufferer. To her delight she found that 
this treatment — the only sedative she could 
.think of — relieved the pain. The muscles re- 
laxed, and the child dozed off to sleep. 

She said a fervent prayer as she waited be- 
side the bed. After a space the child moaned 
softly and opened her eyes. 

“How you feel, Amy?” asked the nurse 
gently. “Do you want anything?” 

“Please — I want more rags that wells my 
legs,” the little patient whispered. 

And she got them. Nurse Kenny resumed 
her hot “foments.” All night long she labored, 
her medical tools being heat, water, cloths, 
and her untiring service. In the morning the 
child was free from fever and pain and was 
relaxed. But she could not move her legs. 

In the middle of this crisis an agitated 
neighbor rode into the farmyard with the an- 
nouncement that his own ten-year-old son and 
four -year-old daughter were stricken with the 
disease and could the nurse find time to help, 
to tell them what to do. 

Elizabeth Kenny smiled encouragingly and 
never gave thought to her own weariness. In- 
structing the mother of little Amy to continue 
the hot, damp cloth treatments whenever the 
child was awake, she mounted her horse and 
• rode to the home of the neighbor. 

Here she repeated the only treatment she- 
knew — the hot foments. And she brought rest 
and relief to two more stricken children. 

As infantile paralysis generally strikes 
down several children in a given area when it 
makes its dread appearance, it was not sur- 
prising that six children were almost imme- 
diately under the courageous young nurse’s 
care. And she applied the same treatment in 


each case. 

Now came the problem of how to conquer 
that aftermath of paralysis. Elizabeth re- 
membered her study of anatomy and her ex- 
ercises and massages which had helped her 
brother. 

Still following Dr. McDonnell’s instructions 
to use her best judgment, she noted that the 
attacked muscles had relaxed and seemed re- 
covered. It was the muscles which had not 
not been subject to the spasms which now did 
not seem to respond to the will. 

That this was the direct opposite of the 
matter as understood by the medical profes- 
sion, Elizabeth Kenny did not know. Had 
she known, it would probably have made no 
difference to her. She was doing what she 
saw was the sensible thing to do. 

She began massaging and passively mani- 
pulating the dormant muscles, re-educating 
the la^y muscles to obey orders, to learn to 



SISTER KENNY 


work again. Her knowledge acquired in the 
care of her own brother stood her in good 
stead now. Presently all six little patients 
were sitting up. 

Before spring faded into summer all of them 
were out of bed and running agilely across the 
hills and playing as happily as though they 
i had never been stricken. 

Sister Elizabeth Kenny was happy and 
pleased. She felt that she had done an honest 
job of nursing, nothing more. Her very ig- 
norance of the dread disease was her shield 
and buckler. 

And then Dr. McDonnell came riding out 
into the bush country to learn how she had 
fared. 

“The six children?” she repeated in a mat- 
ter-of-fact way. “Oh> they are quite all right.” 

“What?” gurgled the good doctor. “You — 
you don’t mean they’re recovered?” 

“Of course they are. Shouldn’t they be?” 

Dr. McDonnell became highly excited. He 
had to see the patients. He was incredulous. 


He began firing questions at the surprised 
Elizabeth. 

Finally: 

“Elizabeth, you have treated those cases 
for symptoms exactly the opposite of symp- 
toms recognized by orthodox medical men. 
More than that, you have treated the symp- 
toms themselves exactly the opposite as, they 
treat them. I have a case of infantile para- 
lysis near home. I want . you to come and 
show me what you did.” 

Willingly Sister Elizabeth Kenny went with 
the physician and demonstrated. Within days 
McDonnell’s patient was on the highway to 
recovery. 

“This is amazing, my dear girl,” said the 
doctor in awe. “You have discovered a rev- 
olutionizing treatment for poliomyelitis. You 
must go on with your work. The way before 
you will be hard. You will know heartbreak 
and humiliation. Even the medical profession 
will oppose you. Have you the courage to 
fight?” 

Nurse Elizabeth Kenny drew a deep breath 


and smiled bravely into the kindly doctor’s 
eyes. 

“For the sake of the children of the world, 
and with God to help me, I have,” she an- 
swered him. 

“God bless you, my dear,” murmured the 
old doctor. 

And God bless Sister Elizabeth Kenny, 
indeedl For thirty-three years she has given 
battle to the dread disease that cripples help- 
less children and fought pig-headed doctors 
who refused to accept her teachings which had 
proved better than eighty-five percent "efficient 
in effecting complete cures. 

Today Sister Kenny’s methods are recog- 
nized the world over. Clinics have been es- 
tablished in many places — having once got a 
start in Minneapolis and Australia. Today, 
not yet sixty years of - age, Sister Kenny can 
look upon her work and find it good. Out of 
the Australian bush country she has brought 
the miracle of a treatment technique which 
is recognized by the highest medical authori- 
ties on infantile paralysis. 


THE LITERARY PIANO 


Christopher Shales and the 

M IS name was Christopher Latham 
Sholes, and he was born in a small town 
in Pennsylvania in 1819. And if you 
can state offhand from the foregoing informa- 
tion what great practical invention he is 
primarily responsible for, you are better 
posted than the average quiz fan. So we will 
tell you right off that Chris Sholes revolution- 
ized the business world by his invention of 
the first practical typewriter. 

Sholes was only fourteen years old when 
he was apprenticed to master the art of 
printing in the shop of his hometown news- 
paper. Thus, at an early age he becamp fa- 
miliar with type and with the history of 
printing. 

At the outset, let us frankly consider the 
fact that no lack of scientific knowledge or 
mechanical ability delayed the invention of 
the typewriter until deep in the second half 
of the nineteenth century. In actuality, every- 
thing was propitious for its development. 

The art of printing was far along, individual 
type-letters were old stuff, a flexible and 
workable keyboard was on hand on every 
piano, metals were rapidly improving, and 
mechanics and thinkers were running loose 
over the face of/the land. 

But nobody /built a machine to take the 
place of handwriting. Businessmen were 
flourishing penmen — and nothing would re- 
place the horse. People simply could not be 
sold on anything so simple and so close to 
their concrete comprehension. Socially, the 
use of typed messages over scholarly hand- 
writing was strictly taboo. 

Thus, it seems inevitable that the typewriter 
would be invented by a man sufficiently im- 
practical to become thoroughly interested 
in the idea and at the same time sufficiently 
persistent to complete the task in spite of all 
discouragment. Such a man Christopher L. 
Sholes proved to be. 

When he grew up, Sholes wandered west- 
ward, filling various responsible positions in 


Invention of the Typewriter 

his time, by turns being a compositor, printer, 
editor, postmaster, a member of the Wiscon- 
sin legislature, a commissioner of public 
works, etc. On the side, Sholes was fond of 
poetry and chess. 

Such a man was he when he finally gravi- 
tated to Milwaukee and fell into the company 
of two other men — Samuel Soule and Carlos 
Glidden. Sholes was running a small job- 
printing shop and he became disgusted with 
the crude device of a hand stamp for num- 
bering tickets, ledger pages, blank checks, and 
things of this nature. He wondered why a 
better and more accurate numbering device 
couldn’t be made. He mentioned this idea 
to Soule one day when the latter visited him 
at his shop. 

Soule became immediately interested, and 
the two of them pooled their brains and finally 
came up in 1866 with a simple machine that 
required only a few keys and which could 
mark numerals on paper or cardboard. It 
wasn’t as fast or as perfect as the numbering 
machines today, of course, but it worked. 
It had solved. Sholes’ personal problem. 

Then Glidden came in one day, and Sholes 
showed him the stamping machine. Glidden 
was much impressed. He thought intently for 
a few minutes. Then he said: 

“If it can write numbers, why can’t it write 
letters?” 

Shole stared at his friend in puzzlement 
until Glidden’s meaning dawned on him. At 
once he became enthusiastic over the possi- 
bilities. 

“Let’s call Soule into .conference,” he said. 
“This is too big an idea to drop.” 

And here is where Sholes’ practical im- 
practicalness shone forth. The three friends 
took thorough stock of the previous work 
which had been done in the field, from Fou- 
cault’s machine to reproduce raised or em- 
bossed characters for the blind to read on up 
to the more promising contraptions of Beach 
and Francis. 



Frenchmen, Britishers, Americans, even a 
Tyrolian had invented writing machines of 
various kinds which worked to a certain ex- 
terft— and which had not been accepted by the 
general public. 

They read an article in The Scientific 
American which boldly prophecied that the 
“literary piano” would eventually completely 
supplant handwriting. And so these three in- 
trepid men set to work to make that predic- 
tion come true. 

In 1868 they took out patents on their com- 
pleted machine, the principal new feature of 
which was that they had a circular set of 
rods which converged in such a way that 
each could strike the paper at the same spot 
without painstaking preliminary adjustment. 
Otherwise, their machine was quite similar to 
others already tried. The use of a four-row 
keyboard, an inked ribbon, etc., having al- 
ready been invented. 

The only thing was that all machines printed 
in caps only and on the under side of the 
paper so that the operator could not see what 
he was writing. But the Sholes,, Glidden and 
Soule machine did work without breaking 
down. Nobody got on fire over the invention 
but Sholes. He began writing letters — all of 
his correspondence — on his machine, becom- 
ing quite proficient at it. 

One of these letters came into the hands of 
a business man named Densmore, who had 
the vision to see the future possibilities of the 
thing. Equally as important, he had the money 
to invest. He bought his way into the part- 
nership by paying the tinkering inventor all 
previous expenses. And then he told them 
frankly that, while Shole was rather good at 
writing on his pet machine, it was too fragile 
and cumbersome to be of general practical 
use and too crude and complicated to be con- 
sidered for a minute by any manufacturer 
of metal parts. 

This straight talk discouraged Soule and 
Glidden, and they dropped out of the partner- 
ship. Sholes, however, bristled indignantly. 
But he wasn’t pig-headed. He saw what 
Densmore was driving at. 

“All right,” he agreed, “if you’ll supply the 
money. I’ll build another machine.” 

“That’s what I am doing here,” answered 
x the practical Densmore. “I’ll supply all the 
money you need. Your job is to build a ma- 
chine that is simple and which will stand up 
under hard usage. And I’ll see that it gets 
hard and practical use.” 

Sholes didn’t quite understand how Dens- 
more could encompass this, but he set to 
work. Densmore surprised him. He sent ma- 
chine after machine to different places to be 
tried out by professional men. One of these 
was a court reporter in Washington named 
James Clephane. 

Clephane was a severe critic and a tough 
operator. He mastered each machine he re- 
ceived and he punished it. But he gave such 
minute criticism that his advice was invalu- 
able. 


Sholes almost despaired, but he didn’t give 
up. All in all, he built more than, thirty 
-different machines in five years’ time before 
both he and Densmore were satisfied. In 1874 
he had come up with a model which looked 
more like a Singer sewing machine than a 




THE SHOLES TYPEWRITER 


typewriter. But it forked. It had a roller, 
visible typing, a keyboard and action quite 
similar to the typewriter of today, an inked 
ribbon, and it was far faster than handwriting. 

By sheer obstinacy and perseverance, 
backed by Densmore and needled by Clephane, 
Christopher Sholes evolved a practical type- 
writer that would stand up under work and 
strain. 

Of course, the business world had yet to be 
sold on the machine, and nimble-fingered op- 
erators had yet to be - trained, and mechanics 
had to learn to repair them, and the curse 
of social bad taste had to be lifted. But the 
manufacturing obstacles had all been over- 
come. 

In 1874 the two men called on the Reming- 
ton family of Ilion, New York. The Reming- 
tons were so enthusiastic that they bought 
the patent outright, set about manufacturing 
the machine and convincing a skeptical public. 

A few minor changes were made in the ma- 
chine, such as the introduction of lower case 
letters and the shift -mechanism to reduce the 
number of keys needed. But the fact remains 
that Christopher Sholes actually built the first 
successful typewriter and supplied the ma- 
chine upon which Mark Twain typed his final 
draft of TOM SAWYER, the first author to 
use a typewriter to prepare a story for his 
publishers. 

Christopher L. Sholes introduced the type- 
writer to the world, and in his own way vastly 
affected the course of modern life. 


WU 

THRILLS IN SCIENCE 

PLUS MANY OTHER INTERESTING FEATURES NEXT ISSUE 

79 




By .C. STERLING. GLEASON 

Harold Dare, Favorite of the Films, Snatches Some Precious 
Herbs and a Lovely Girl from the Clutches of Dandy Diavolo! 



UT in the 
West, where- 
the suey is a 
little stronger, far out 
West, where the noo- 
dles grow a little 
longer — in Hollywood, 
that distant metropolis 
of millionaires, movies 
and Mammon, that 

capital of sin and the 

cinema, stands the quaint Oriental building 
which houses the chop-suey parlor of lovely . 
Wun Look. 

Here are wont to come all Hollywood’s 
greatest, to , refresh and _ rejuvenate them- 
selves with Wun Look’s superlative chop 
suey. Hither at noon come busy captains of 
industry, to fortify themselves against the 
grilling afternoons of golf. Hither, after 
strenuous days of whole-souled labor for 
Art’s sake, come famous film stars, many of 
them remaining long after the curfew has 
sounded, held simply by the lure of Wun 
Look’s magnificent menus. . 

Hither often comes that supreme figure in 
filmdom — Harold Dare, greatest ' of screen 
heroes, and also connoisseur and patron, of 
the art of chop-suey preparation. Here, too, 
is sometimes seen Dandy Diavolo, that peer- 
less villain of the Flicker Films, whom mil- 
lions of right-minded film fans hate as the 
lifelong persecutor of the great hero. 

Who knows how many of Harold Dare’s 
great benevolences have owed their inspira- 
tion to the subtle, satisfying savor of Wun 
Look’s chop suey, or how many of the diabol- 
ical deeds and devious devices, as crooked 
• and intertangled as the very noodles of Wun 
Look’s chow mein, have been incited by some 
mysterious ingredient of that inscrutable . 
black sauce which lends the last delicate pi- 
quancy to the eggs fooyong? 

Yet even the 'idyllic occupation of chop- 
suey preparation is not fully free from the 
frowns of Fate. Came a day when the great 
Copyright, 1929j Stellar 


Harold Dare spoke gently to the Chinese 
maiden, seeking to learn why the chop suey 
had lost its wonted savor. With great tears 
in her lustrous dark eyes, the girl answered 
him : “Oh, Mr. Harold, that is what all. the 
people ask to know.” . 

She told a tearful tale of sordid commer- 
cialism, of a monstrous monopoly that threa- 
tened to strangle the essential art of chop- 
suey making. An unscrupulous broker in 
Chinese vegetables — Yet Un-Hung by name 
— had -cornered the market and would supply 
only his own chain of inferior chop-suey pal- . 
aces with the ingredients necessary to the 
synthesis of AAAI chop suey. It was his 
plan to force out all competition by cutting 
off the supply of the constituents of chop 
suey. - 

“Is there no other way to get the vege- 

EDITOR'SNOTE 

S OME stories are for- 
gotten almost as 
soon as they are printed. 
Others stand the test of 
time. * 

Because "The Radia- 
tion of the Chinese Veg- 
" etable," by C. Sterling 

Gleason, has stood this test, it has been 
nominated for SCIENTIFICTION'S HALL OF 
FAME and is reprinted here. 

In each issue we will honor one of the most 
outstanding fantasy classics of all time as se- 
lected by our readers. 

We hope in this way to bring a new per- 
manence to the science fiction gems of yester- 
day and to perform a real service to the 
science fiction devotees of today and to- 
morrow. 

Nominate your own favorite! Send a letter 
or postcard to The Editor, STARTLIN G 
STORIES, 10 East 40th St., New York 16, N. Y. 
All suggestions are more than welcome! 

Publishing Corporation 





Despite Dare’s warning, Wun Look was taken prisoner 


tables?” demanded Harold Dare, his great MWTITH the full facilities of the Dare 
soul instantly filled with righteous indigna- ¥W laboratories concentrated upon the 
tion against the conscienceless market ma'ni- problem, the solution was soon found, 
pulator, whose merciless machinations threa- Treated with regular applications of high- 
tened the very foundations of this essential frequency electric current, the essential vege- 
industry. tables responded vigorously and grew with 

“No, Mr. Harold,” replied the girl. “They incredible rapidity. The stimulating action 
will not grow in America. Only in a certain of the electricity, in accelerating cell growth 
part of CHina, where the weather is kind.” and aiding metabolism, caused them to grow 

“Then,” said Harold, in sudden strong res- to twice the size of the ordinary plant, and 
olution, “we shall grow them here And their flavor was even better than that of the 
from the great Dare research laboratories, imported vegetable. A few test dishes of 
maintained by the celebrated screen star m chop suey made with the new product were 
the'interests of the public welfare, came fam- sampled by famous connoisseurs of Chinese 
ous scientists with complicated electrical in- cookery, and pronounced superlative in the 
struments, to conduct tests and experiments, nth degree. 

and to delve deeply into the mysteries of At length the research was complete. Wun 
growing the exotic Chinese plants. • Look, in her gratitude, planned a dinner for 

81 ’ , 



82 STARTLING STORIES 


Harold Dare and his famous chief engineer, 
the great Scott, under whose direction the 
experiments had been carried on. 

In the basement of the Wun Look’s “chop 
sueyrie,” where most of the research had 
been carried on, against that background of 
modem science, she would serve a banquet. 
She would serve with her own hands a ban- 
quet in traditional Chinese style — a banquet 
the most august mandarin might look upon 
with envy. 

To Harold Dare was sent a note requesting 
that he set a date for the event. That ques- 
tion being referred to Dare’s synchronizing 
social secretary, the tenth of the month was 
chosen. It was obviously necessary to make 
arrangements for photographers to be pres- 
ent, to record for posterity this crucial mo- 
ment that marked the inauguration 'of a new 
era in the chop-suey industry. 

The proper papers were prepared by the 
secretary, and the file left on Dare’s desk for 
signature. When the great star stepped into 
his office to give executive matters a few mo- 
ments’ attention before leaving the lot, he 
found this paper, made a mental note of the 
date, and affixed his signature to the order. 

When he had left the office, just at dusk, 
no one saw a furtive-faced man slip into the 
room, close the door behind him, and a mo- 
ment later make a hurried exit and disappear 
into the darkness. At least, if anyone saw 
him, it is not recorded. But, when Harold 
Dare’s secretary prepared the necessary 
memoranda for arranging the event, he found 
that apparently the star had decided to post- 
pone the dinner one day; for the numerals 
“10” had been crossed out, and “11” sub- 
stituted. 

It was early in the evening of the tenth 
that Harold Dare drew up before the Wun 
Look chop sueyrie and, dismissing his chauf- 
feur for the time being, strode into the or- 
nate dining room of that celebrated palace. 
He thought it not a little strange the photog- 
raphers were not yet there to welcome him, 
but since no one was in sight, save several 
undistinguished patrons dining in private 
booths, he passed back to the stairs and 
descended to the basement. 

“Wun Look!” he called. There was no 
answer. The basement was dark, except for 
a crack of light that showed beneath the dpor 
of the improvised laboratory. He grasped 
the knob and stepped into the room — 

Harold Dare felt strong hands grasp his 
wrists. He struggled, but vainly. A wide 
leather belt was drawn swiftly about him, 
pinioning his arms to his sides, and the cold 


muzzle of a revolver pressed against his 
cheek. 

“Not g word, Harold Dare!” hissed a fa- 
miliar voice in his ear, after the thugs had 
forced him into a chair. 

“Dandy Diavolo!” The words came in- 
stinctively to Dare’s lips as he recognized 
his villainous arch-enemy. 

“Yes, my proud hero,” sneered Diavolo, 
“you are my prisoner. You thought to come 
to a banquet, celebrating another of your 
so-called triumphs. But I have other enter- 
tainment for you, my fine fellow.” 

Two ruffians drew Dare forward and 
forced him back into a cjiair. One seized each 
arm, while others pulled him down, to a pros- 
trate position and bound him fast. 

“What does this mean?” demanded Dare. 

“It means,” replied Diavolo, with an evil 
leer, “that you have gone a step too far in 
what you term your benevolences. You little 
recked, when you gave orders to your labora- 
tory men to attempt to grow Chinese vege- 
tables under radio-frequency stimulation, 
that you were running counter to powerful 
interests. You did not realize that I myself 
own a half-interest in the Yet Un-Hung 
chop-suey chain. You perhaps do not know 
that I myself am responsible for your being 
here today instead of tomorrow. .1 caused 
one of my men to alter the date on the re- 
quisition after you had signed it, so that 
while you understood that the dinner was to 
be on the tenth, all preparations have been 
made to receive you on the eleventh. And 
now your ambitious scheme is to be the 
cause of your own downfall!” 

PjipHEY were baring Harold Dare’s chest, 
JsL and upon it placing a large square of 
metal-meshed cloth. Behind him, they slipped 
a similar area of the same material, so that 
the cold metal was firmly in contact with the 
flesh. To each they attached a long flexible 
cord, which they draped over chairs and ex- 
tended to the large. panel of the radio-fre- 
quency oscillator which had supplied the cur- 
rent used in treating the vegetables, 'i 

“You will observe,” remarked Diavolo, as 
he made fast the ends of the wires to ter- 
minals of the oscillator, “that only the best 
type of equipment is used by the Dare labora- 
tories — a fact for which I am personally 
grateful. This oscillator is designed to fur- 
nish considerably more, power than would 
be necessary to treat double the number of 
plants I see here. I note with approval that, 
instead of the spark type of apparatus, which 
is commonly used — even by hospitals — the 



THE RADIATION OF THE CHINESE VEGETABLE 83 


Dare technicians have substituted a powerful 
vacuum-tube oscillator, capable of delivering 
continuous-wave oscillation, which carries 
more energy and thus has greater thermal ef- 
fect than the damped wave emanated by a 
spark circuit.” 

Dare understood his reference. He him- 
self had had experience with that type of ap- 
paratus. Once, when he had been afflicted 
with a cold and a sore throat — which was ex- 
tremely inconvenient in that it interfered 
with the filming of the current talking pic- 
ture then in production Scott had recom- 

mended that he be treated by diathermy, and 
had had the equipment sent up to Dare’s res- 
idence. Doctor Fredericks, Dare’s personal 
physician, then administered a treatment in 
much the same way as Diavolo was now pre- 
paring to do. The electrodes, placed on either 
side of the patient’s chest, were energized by 
a high-frequency current which, in passing 
through the high resistance of the tissues, 
dissipated much of its energy in the form of 
heat, with the effect of stimulating the circu- 
lation and clearing up the congestion. In a 
few moments the current had done its work, 
and Dare, glowing through and through with 
a gentle heat, had risen, cured by the treat- 
ment. 

“It is very thoughtful; Diavolo, to take the 
trouble to give me a diathermic treatment,” 
said Dare, “although I must really confess I 
do not feel the need of it at the present time.” 

“My purpose,” replied Diavolo, “is purely 
educational. I propose to demonstrate to 
you that high-frequency oscillations, al- 
though useful in stimulating the growth of 
vegetables and curing colds, may be put to 
even better use in ridding the world of a 
person whose life has been spent in amass- 
ing a great fortune, simply by making mil- 
/ lions of film fans hate me. By passing 
through you the full strength of the cur- 
rent generated by this equipment, I shall 
produce heat just as in medical diathermy — 
by the dissipation of energy in cell tissues. 
But an oscillator of this power will raise the 
temperature far above the slight warmth 
produced by the ordinary outfit. One can 
cook a steak, by passing a heavy radio-fre- 
quency current through it. And that, Har- 
old Dare, is to be your fate — to be cooked 
alive, by the very instrument of your in- 
tended triumph!” 

With a stroke of the pliers -he cut the 
wire that led to the long row of tiny plants, 
each with its miniature electrode gently 
clasping the frail green stalk. “Lest any of 
the current be diverted from our purpose, 


we shall disconnect the vegetables from the 
apparatus.” 

There was a noise at the door. Harold 
Dare heard it first. 

“Stay out, Wun Look!” he cried. Too 
late. One burly ruffian flung open the door 
and seized the startled maiden. Before she 
had even realized what was happening, he 
had clapped a hand over her mouth and 
drawn her roughly inside. In an instant 
they had improvised a gag and were binding 
her to a chair. The beautiful almond eyes 
were filled with tears of uncomprehending 
woe. 

“Never mind, Wun Look,” said Harold 
Dare, gently. “They’ve got me, but they 
won’t hurt you.” 

“Fool!” sneered Dandy Diavolo. “Little 
you know about it. We have two distin : 
guished guests. Certainly we must enter- 
tain the lady in a manner befitting her sta- 
tion. Hook her up men!” 

The henchmen uncoiled another pair of 
wires and prepared to run parallel connec- 
tions from the oscillator. With dismay Dare 
saw their evil intent. He knew it was futile 
to attempt to appeal to the finer feelings of 
the fiend. Better to try to touch the crea- 
ture’s selfish impulses. 

“Do you realize, Diavolo,” he said, “that 
with Wun Look will die the secret of pre- 
paring the finest chop suey that has ever 
been known to mankind?” 

“You are right. Dare,, for once,” agreed 
Diavolo, with an evil smile: “That would 
be true — but I have foreseen that circum- 
stance. Before the girl leaves this mortal 
sphere she shall tell all. When she feels the 
insidious thrillings of the high-frequency 
penetrate to the very marrow of her bones, 
and feels a mysterious heat begin to burn 
the tissues, she will soon divulge the secret 
recipe.” 

“You display your ignorance of the Chi- 
nese character,” said Dare. “You apparently 
do not realize that, rather than give up the 
cherished secret that has been handed down 
through the centuries from mandarin to 
mandarin since the time of Confucius, she 
will perish with a smile. Would she shame 
the memory of her ancestors, who faced un- 
speakable tortures or even death itself to 
protect the formula from the hands of in- 
fidels? If you believe so, you do not know 
Wun Look!” 

“Perhaps you are right,” conceded Dia- 
volo, grudgingly. “But it will do no harm 
to try.” 

“You are taking grave risks,. Diavolo,” 


84 STARTLING STORIES 


pleaded Dare. “You may easily carry the 
experiment too far, and snuff out the life of 
the delicate maiden. Would you deprive the 
world of the final fruit of thousands of years 
of development — the finest flower of the 
choprsuetic art? Think what it would mean 
to you, Diavolo. Could you carry on your 
work as master villain of the films, unsus- 
tained by the splendid nourishment of Wun 
Look’s chop suey ? Imagine yourself at the 
end of a long day of grilling work before 
the camera — your energy depleted by hours 
of giving the best that is in you — in putting 
forth, to the world your magnificent concep- 
tion of the true soul of the sneer, the wholly 
evil leer, all for ■ the sake of your Public. 
Then think what it means to be able to sit 
down to a bowl of steaming chop suey, to 
feel your spirit revived by the savory odor 
of exotic Chinese vegetables perfectly pre- 
pared by the skillful hands of Wun Look, 
to feel the sharp tang of the suey send shiv- 
ers of satisfaction along your spine, and 
your 'energy restored for another day of 
artistic endeavor. Can you bear to deprive 
yourself of such a comfort, or to take from 
the cinema world its chief staff of support, 
to cut off the principal source of inspiration , 
of innumerable Hollywood screen stars, and 
to endanger the interests of your Public, 
over which your sneer has ever held such 
potent powers? Dare you, Diavolo?” , 

OR a- moment Diavolo wavered. Then 
Dare know he had won. 

“Spare the girl!” commanded the mon- 
ster, and beautiful Wun Look, suddenly suc- 
cumbing to the reaction from the tremen- 
dous tension of this horrible ordeal, swooned 
away into blessed unconsciousness. 

Diavolo wheeled upon his henchmen. “We 
are forgetting our duty as hosts!” he ex- 
claimed: “We have forgotten that we the 
celebrated Harold Dare as our chief guest 
of honor. We had planned' a warm recep- 
tion for him. Let it proceed!” 

The henchmen sprang to the controls of 
the oscillator. One flicked the switch which 
set a motor-generator whirring, another 
turned a rheostat and brought the filament 
of the large vacuum tube to a cherry glow. 
Needles flickered and climbed as the.oscil-. 
lator settled to its work. 

A feeling of warmth surged through Dare. 
Had he not realized its terrible significance 
he would have rejoiced in it. But, as the 
current rose, Dare’s mind was racing. What 
possible hope -might there be for escape be- 
fore the insidious, penetrating heat had so 


benumbed his faculties that movement was 
impossible! Even if he could break the 
bonds which held him fast; he was outnum- 
bered six to one! Moreover, he was with- 
out a weapon, while Diavolo’s men were 
heavily armed. It was useless to try to sum- 
mon help by shouting, for he knew that any 
such attempt would only hasten the inevita- 
ble end. 

The heat was becoming intense. It was 
relaxing his muscles, and Dare knew that he 
must act now or never. The face of Dia- 
volo twisted in a cruel smile as he saw the 
desperation in Dare’s eyes. 

“And how is the treatment progressing?” 
he taunted: “Do you feel that after a few 
more moments you will be able to resume 
your customary role as super-hero of the 
films?” 

“Certainly,” replied Dare, still the daunt- 
less hero. “Have you not learned by this 
time, after all your years of experience in 
the motion-picture industry that in the end, 
right always triumphs, and that in the last 
reel villainy must receive its just punish- 
ment?” 

“But remember, Harold Dare, this is not 
a scenario,” triumphantly answered the arch- 
villain. “In your film career the facile pen 
of the scenario writer has repeatedly again 
saved you from your richly-deserved fate. 
This time there will be no such interference. 
You have foiled me for the last time.” 

“The end is not yet, Diavolo,” said -Har- 
old Dare, with a smile that cost him much. 
The current was finding an easy path and 
the heat permeated his chest oppressively, 
making it difficult to breathe. He was be- 
coming very drowsy. His eyelids drooped 
lower and lower. 

, From somewhere far off came the sound 
of a clock striking the seventh hour. Dia- 
volo heard it. 

“It is growing late,” he exclaimed: “Can- 
not the thing be hurried?” 

He stepped to the controls and advanced 
the rheostats to the utmost. A fresh surge 
of heat swept over Dare. Involuntarily he 
drew a sharp breath. To his surprise, he 
found that the pain was less when his lungs 
were full of air. Then, reflecting, he saw 
the answer. The expansion of his chest 
forced the electrodes farther apart, making 
the path of the current longer and hence of 
higher resistance. He experimented, and 
found a certain amount of relief in breath- 
ing very deeply. Out of the corner of his 
eye he could see the needle of a meter fluc- 
tuate slightly with his movements. 




THE RADIATION OF THE CHINESE VEGETABLE 85 


Suddenly a wild hope seized him. With 
an effort he fought off drowsiness. 

“There is one thing that you did not know, 
Diavolo,” he said, in an offhand manner. 
“You have spoiled one planting of vege- 
tables. You will have to wait several days 
before you can have your chop suey.” 

“What do you mean?” Diavolo scowled. 

“I mean that the time has passed for the 
treatment of the plants. In order to get 
good results, one must treat them regularly. 
The scheduled time is half an hour past, and 
already the leaves are drooping. This plant- 
ing is spoiled.” 

“You lie, Harold Dare!” cried Diavolo. 
“It is merely a trick. I see it plainly. You 
thought that you would entice me to con- 
nect the plants into the circuit, so that some 
of the current would be diverted and you 
would be relieved.” Nevertheless, he stepped 
over and examined the tiny leaves. They 
were, indeed, drooping slightly. 

“Perhaps it is not yet too late,” muttered 
Diavolo to himself. He picked up a lead 
from the oscillator and clipped it to the rod 
which acted as a distributing lead to the 
plants. The current in the wire leading to 
Dare dropped slightly. By turning a con- 
trol Diavolo managed to restore the reading. 

Dare took a deep breath. “You see, Dia- 
volo, you will do well to believe me. Even 
during my last moments I must pursue my 
lifelong policy of returning good for evil. 
Therefore I will tell you that you may, per- 
haps, be able to save the plants if you con- 
tinue the treatment -for thirty-five minutes, 
instead of the ordinary twenty.” 

“Yes, my proud hero,” snarled Diavolo. 
“I . can promise you that. It will probably 
take that long to finish the ceremony of wel- 
come which I have planned. After that, my 
other guest will go with me upstairs, and 
prepare me a dish of, chop suey — under the 
supervision of my henchmen, who will take 
good care to record the recipe correctly. It 
will be an excellent stroke of business, to 
announce in tomorrow’s newspapers: 

WUN LOOK CHOP SUEYRIE 
MERGED WITH YET UN-HUNG 
CHAIN 

Ancient Recipe of Mandarins Acquired by 
Local Concern !’ ” 

“Dandy Diavolo,” said Harold Dare, in a 
low, resonant voice, which came, it seemed, 
from the vtvy depths of his chest, “I must 
admit your Icleverness. It was a shrewd 
scheme, to lure me to the basement of the 


Wun Look Chop Sueyrie, located at the 
corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Aba- 
lone Street, and here to threaten me with 
death in the shape of a heavy radio-fre- 
quency current passed through my chest. 
You have applied science to work your fell 
purposes, and now bid fair to have suc- 
ceeded. In a few more minutes, you prob- 
ably will have done away with your hated 
rival, and Harold Dare will be no more. 
But be not too sure of yourself until that 
time comes, Dandy Diavolo. I, too, know 
something of science. Perhaps there are 
others beside yourself, who are using it as 
a tool to their own purposes — even your 
present victim.” 

“What are you doing?” demanded Dia- 
volo, with a sneer. 

“I am sending out invisible waves, too in- 
tangible to be grasped by your crude senses, 
to my unseen millions of fans everywhere. 
Anyone who is a friend of Harold Dare can 
save him from a terrible death by coming 
instantly to the Wun Look Chop Sueyrie, 
at Hollywood Boulevard and Abalone Street, 
Hollywood, California.” 

“Ho!” snorted Diavolo. “Mental telepa- 
thy, I suppose. No doubt, whde sitting 
there you mastered the secret of communi- 
cation between minds without the aid of 
any intervening apparatus.” 

“You would not be so calm,” said Dare, 
“if you knew that somewhere in the outside 
world, someone at this very moment has 
just heard that I am the prisoner at the 
Wun Look Chop Sueyrie, Hollywood, and 
is speeding to the rescue. You doubt it, but 
I have the faith to believe it.” 

“You shall soon learn the folly of such 
over-confidence,” retorted Diavolo. 

Dare’s head was sinking lower and lower 
upon his chest. The heat was dry and 
scorching. It seemed that the blood was 
carrying the stinging heat to every part of 
the body. His eyes closed. He lay limp. 

“Where, now, are your boasted friends?” 
taunted Diavolo. “Why do they not come 
to your rescue?” 

With a tremendous effort Dare opened 
his eyes. “Remember, Diavolo, that only 
in the end can you be sure of the success of 
your villainous schemes. It is the very last 
moment, the final reel.” 

His eyes, turning vaguely toward the door, 
beheld a strange sight. Diavolo, catching 
the sudden change of Dare’s expression, fol- 
lowed his gaze. 

Beneath the door, a flood of intense, blu- 
ish-white light poured across the threshold. 


86 STARTLING STORIES 


Two shadows flickered across its path. 

A scuffling of feet, a quick rush, and sud- 
denly the door splintered and fell inward 
beneath the attack of two brawny police- 
men. Diavolo and his henchmen were 
drawing their guns, but too late. 

“You are covered,” snapped a pre-emptory 
voice. “Not a move!” In the tremendous 
glare of a screen floodlight, the great Scott 
advanced with drawn revolver and disarmed 
the chief villain and all his yes-men. Be- 
hind, the powerful arc, a trio of cameramen 
ground their cameras, and now an assistant 
stepped forth with microphone in hand, 
while ^others adjusted mixers and all other 
equipment necessary to the recording of 
this impressive scene for the outside world. 

W HILE Scott slashed the bonds that 
held Harold Dare captive, an an- 
nouncer was speaking into the microphone 
which was connected through remote-con- 
trol equipment to the Dare broadcasting 
station, ,\VROT, and as the great star rose 
from the chair, a microphone was thrust 
into his .hand and he was asked: “Won’t 
you say a few words, Mr. Dare, to your vast 
unseen radio audience — something to reas- 
sure them that you are safe at last?” 

With a gesture Dare waved aside the 
microphone. “Friends of the air,” he said, 
“I have first one duty to perform — to my 
beautiful .companion in distress.” And while 
the millions waited, he seized Scott’s keen 
knife and strode to the side of Wun Look. 
In an instant he had cut the cords and re- 
leased the maiden from her pitiful plight. 
Scott drew from, his pocket a small vial. 

“Here are aromatic spirits of ammonia. 
They will revive her.” 

Dare forced, a little of the liquid between 
the lips of the unconscious girl, and before 
the clicking- cameras, beautiful Wun Look 
slowly opened her almond eyes and blinked. 
“Oh, how to come here, Mr. Harold?” 
Then to that circle of sound-recording 
cameras and to that vast radio audience, 
Harold Dare told his story. 

“I was getting pretty warm,- with the os- 
cillator passing a heavy current through my 
chest, and it seemed impossible, to escape, 
unarmed and outnumbered as I was by Dia- 
volo’s' men., Then I happened to notice 
that, as I breathed, the current varied with 
the motion. By a process of -atiocination 
I deduced that this effect was due to the 
greater - resistance of the chest’ when ex- 
panded. I was instantly struck with the re- 
semblance of this phenomenon to the action 


of a microphone. Now, it is well known 
that any apparatus will act as a microphone 
- if it will vary electrical current in propor- 
tion to the physical vibrations that consti- 
tute sound. In this case, my chest itself 
had to act as the diaphragm. 

“By using deep chest tones, I caused the 
voice vibrations to be centered about my 
chest and give a maximum displacement, 
thus increasing the change of intensity to a 
comparatively large variation. Since the 
vocal vibrations caused the radio-frequency 
current to vary in exact accordance with 
the speech, the current in the circuit was 
modulated with the voice, just as with the 
carrier wave of a broadcasting station. As 
I had hoped, someone outside happened to 
pick up the radiation from the long wires 
running to the Chinese plants, which acted 
as antennae projecting the wave into space. 
I see by the look in his eye that it was Scott 
who did this, and the truth of my surmise 
is attested by the way in which the rescue, 
with its splendid communicative facilities, 
was carried out. It is he whom you have to 
thank for this broadcast. 

“As for Dandy Diavolo, ! he is now only 
too well aware of the truth of the great 
principle that has been taught by every Dare 
photoplay in cinema history— namely,- that 
right triumphs over wrong, and villainy is 
punished. Is it not true, Diavolo?” 

“Dare,” replied Diavolo, “ — and friends of 
the air, out there at the other end of this 
great radio hookup — I am beginning to see 
the truth of the great maxim preached by 
my lifelong enemy and Nemesis. Undoubt- 
edly the hero business pays better dividends. 
While Harold Dare is universally honored 
and acclaimed, my fans only hiss -me— it is 
my lot to make them hate me. Perhaps 
some day I shall realize my ancient ambition 
to become the great hero that Harold Dare 
now is. But until that time, I must ask my 
admirers to address me—” 

“In care of the jailer at the State Peni- 
tentiary, Diavolo,” interrupted Dare. “This 
is no time to advertise. When you have 
learned your lesson and forsaken your evil 
ways, then you can count on my hearty co- 
operation. Until then, the minions of the 
law must guide you in the ways of rectitude. 
Come, Wun Look. Let us dine on chop 
suey, made with vegetables/ raised by the 
same radio-frequency vibrations which have 
proved our savior!” 

And Harold Dare arid the beautiful maiden 
went forth to a new day, of brighter dreams 
and a finer chop suey. 





STARTLING STORIES 


that suddenly every one was looking at 
him. The jaws of the soldiers dropped 
open,' the machinery stopped clanking, 
and even some of the strange animals 
quieted down, as if they too knew that 
something was wrong. One of the sol- 
diers uttered an. exclamation of awe: 

“Holy sunspots, it’s a kid,” he cried. 

“You’ve seen kids before,” observed 
Miko in cool tones. He was the only 
one who seemed hardly impressed by 
his own feat of stowing away on the 
troop transport. “I’d like to find Ser- 
geant Vran, please. Sergeant Jamen 
Vran.” 

The dog, crouching down on the_ 
ground beside Miko, staring in every 
direction with eyes that .seemed about 
to pop out of their head, burst sudden- 
ly into a heartrending howl. 

“Quiet, Rover,” ordered Miko. “They 
won’t hurt you.” 

An officer had approached. He gave 
some curt orders. As abruptly as they had 
stopped, soldiers and machines swung 
into motion once more. Having seen 
to it that everything was going satis- 
factorily, the officer fixed Miko Vran 
with a stern eye. ' 

“Have a nice trip here, Sonny?” 

Miko Vran was honest and frank. 
“No, sir. It was kind of monotonous in 
that closet where I stowed away. And 
besides I didn’t get enough to eat from 
the other closets.” 

“That’s too bad. You seem to be 
an intelligent boy, son — ” 

“My name’s Miko Vran.” 

HE officer smiled again. 

.“You seem intelligent, Miko. 
Didn’t you know that you were com- 
mitting a crime by coming here?” 

“It wasn’t much of a crime,” said Miko 
deprecatingly. Then he grinned, and 
the officer’s sternness relaxed. He 
couldn’t help himself. “I wanted to be 
with my father.” 

“That would be Sergeant Jamen 
Vran?” 

“Yes, sir. He left me with my Aunt 
Lurena when my mother died arid he 
joined the army. But I didn’t have a 
good time with her. I don’t think my 


Aunt Lurena likes boys.” 

The officer smiled. “She’s an old 
maid?” 

“No, sir. But she says she’s been 
disappointed in love. She’s had three 
husbands, sir. And besides, she wants 
to get married again. I guess I was in 
the way.” 

“You’re certainly in the way here.” 
The officer sighed. “The fact is I don’t 
know what to do with you. Your case 
isn’t covered in the regulations. So I 
think I’d better take you to see the Gen- 
eral, and let him make the decisions. 
By the way, what’s the pup’s name?” 

“Rover, sir.”- 

“Rather original, isn’t it? Did you 
think of it all by yourself?” 

Miko caught the, twinkle in his eye. 
“Yes, sir. Of course, when I want to be 
dignified, I call him Skyrover. We’ve 
been to Mars and Venus together, and 
on some of the asteroids. He’s a mighty 
good dog.” 

“Looks kind of ugly to me.” 

“Not when you get to know him.” 
Miko was staunch in his defense. “You’d 
find out he’s- right good-looking, then.” 

“He’s a mongrel.” 

“So are you and I, sir. There’s no 
such thing as pure blood.” 

“Hmmm” The officer scratched his 
head. “You’re no fool, Miko. I wish I 
could say as much for your pal. Rover.” 

“He’s intelligent, sir. Right now he’s 
scared because of all the strange life 
forms. He isn’t used to them. But he’ll 
get over that after a while.” 

In fact, Rover seemed already to have 
gotten over much of his fear. He 
watched a driller come slithering along, 
a strange snake-like animal that moved 
forward with a twisting corkscrew mo- 
tion, and there was more of interest in 
his eyes than of fear. 

Unexpectedly, a paw shot out at the 
writhing creature. The next moment, 
Miko and the officer roared with laugh- 
ter. 

The driller had disappeared into the 
ground like a flash, and only a small pile 
of dirt near the smooth hole it had 
bored was left to indicate where it had 
gone. 



SKYROVER 89 


Rover blinked, appealed to Miko with 
his soft eyes — they were the only part 
of him that were not ugly — and then 
pawed feebly at the ground. 

Another driller moved toward him, 
and this time Rover disregarded it. He 
had learned his lesson. 

Miko Vran patted him on the side. 
“You see, sir? He learns fast.” 

The officer nodded, and led the way 
away from the ship. The General’s plas- 
tic bubble-tent was magnetically an- 
chored to the ground about a half mile 
away, and he headed straight for that. 
But when they got close, he stopped, 
and Miko stopped him. There was a 
growl in Rover’s throat, and his coat 
was bristling, so Miko put his hand on 
the dog and made soothing noises. But 
deep down inside him, Rover continued 
to growl. 

The General was engaged in a strange 
ceremony. With a medal in his hand, he 
was facing a huge lobster-like creature 
that gazed motionlessly at him with 
many-faceted eyes. He bowed to the 
right, to the left, then to the right again. 
He did what seemed to Miko a weirder 
dance than any the boy had seen on a 
television screen. Finally, he extended 
the medal at arm’s length, and the lob- 
ster-like animal grasped it in one huge 
claw, and hung it on his carapace. 

M IKO realized there was supposed 
to be a further ceremony after 
this, he had heard, but it did not come 
off. For suddenly, every oiie — the Gen- 
eral, the officer who had accompanied 
Miko, other officers present, even the 
lobster-like creature — every one froze 
into position, all their eyes turned in a 
single direction. 

Miko’s own eyes turned to see what 
they were staring at, and clouded over 
with bewilderment. The thing did not 
look dangerous or impressive at all. It 
was simply a large rock, about three 
feet high, but transparent like no rock 
he had ever seen. A thousand crystal 
faces sparkled like the facets of a giant 
gem. And again, like no rock he had 
ever seen, the thing was moving slowly, 
as if alive. 


As he gazed, the gemlike quality of 
the thing disappeared. It became slow- 
ly opaque as it came to a stop, so that 
now it was more like one of the huge 
boulders Miko had seen on Earth than 
anything else. Every one relaxed. 

The ceremony proceeded. The lob- 
ster-like creature went through the 
same sequence of bows and gyrations 
previously displayed by the General. 
Then it withdrew gracefully, and the 
General entered his tent. Miko and 
the officer found him there a few mo- 
ments later, his forehead bespangled 
with perspiration. 

“Oh, it’s you. Captain Carvo.” Then, 
for the first time, the General caught 
a glimpse of Captain Carvo’s compan- 
ions. “What’s that? What the devil 
are these things doing here?” 

“They’re stowaways, sir. That’s what 
I wanted to speak to you about. I want 
to know what to do with them.” 

“Stowaways?” The General made a 
noise between gritting his teeth and 
clearing his throat. “By Saturn, I’ll 
show them they can’t get away with this. 
Send them back at once.” 

“Yes, sir. Shall I dispatch a special 
transport to take them to Mars?” 

“Special transport? Don’t be a fool, 
Carvo. We have no ships to spare.” 

“That’s what I thought, sir. So I’m 
afraid we’re stuck with these two until 
it’s time for the regular return journey, 
sir.” 

The General growled to himself. 
“Blast them to Pluto and back. As if I 
didn’t have troubles enough without 
them.” 

“Yes, sir. We had a close call with 
that silicoido a few minutes ago.” 

“Did we?” The General laughed bit- 
terly. “Are you sure that was a sili- 
coido?” 

“Well — ” Captain Carvo hesitated. “It 
might have been a Ganymedan,” he ad- 
mitted finally. 

The General began to pace up and 
down. “That’s the trouble. We don’t 
know the truth, and there’s no way of 
learning it — unless the thing explodes, 
and I certainly don’t want that to hap- 
pen.” / 


90 STARTLING STORIES 


Rover was moving restlessly about 
the tent, puzzled by the shiny trans- 
parent walls. He went up to several 
objects, sniffed them, then sniffed the 
General. Miko grabbed him by the neck, 
and pulled him away. Rover growled. 

The General did the same. “Imagine 
the situation we’re in, Carvo. We set out 
to colonize Jupiter with absolutely no 
imperialist intentions, no desire to take 
territory away from any intelligent life- 
form that now possesses it. We find the 
whole planet practically uninhabitable 
because of poisonous creeping fungi — 
all except the Great Red Spot, where 
something in the soil prevents them 
from growing. WeAake the greatest 
care to offend none of the creatures that 
live here — you saw me decorating that 
lobster just a few minutes ago.” 

“It. wasn’t a lobster, sir. It was an 
intelligent Jovian arthropoid, and quite 
capable of associating with us . on our 
own level.” 

“It looked like a lobster, and I can 
assure you that I didn’t relish the job 
of giving it a medal,” growled the Gen- 
eral. “At any rate, we treat every one 
tactfully, and we’re in a fair way of 
making a success of our colony, when 
what happens?” 

“I don’t know,” said Miko frankly. 

B OTH the General and Captain Car- 
vo disregarded him. 

“We run into the silicoidos,” said the 
captain. 

“We run into the silicoidos.” This 
time there was no doubt about it. The 
General was grinding his teeth with 
anger. “Perfectly gentle, amiable crea- 
tures — with the one drawback that 
they’re liable to explode at any moment 
and tear a hole in this planet like one 
made by a ton of QNQ. And they swarm 
all over the place.” 

So that was what the danger had been 
from the big rock-like thing they had 
seen a little while before. Miko swal- 
lowed' a lump in his throat. Just as well 
he had not known about it, or there was 
a good chance that he would have been 
scared right out of those plastic pants 
of his. 


Rover was beginning to move rest- 
lessly again. He was trying to sniff all 
over the tent, and it was all Miko could 
do to keep a grip on him. 

“Our scientists should be able to do 
something about them.” 

“Scientists — pooh!” retorted the Gen- 
eral. “I’ve had our engineers investi- 
gate the situation, and they report 
there’s nothing we can do. , According 
to them, the silicoidos are mostly sili- 
con dioxide, with no more than faint 
traces of other elements. So long as 
they’re alive, they’re in a condition of 
unstable equilibrium — just like a Prince 
Rupert’s drop.” 

“And what may that be, sir?” 

“I know!” said Miko eagerly. “We 
read about them in school. If you drop 
molten glass into water, it’ll solidify , 
quickly into something that looks like 
a teardrop. It’s hard. But if you break 
off the point, the whole thing explodes 
into dust.” 

The General was staring at him open- 
mouthed. “By the Dipper, the things 
they teach these kids nowadays.” 

“Is he right, sir?” 

“Yesi blast it. Every time one of those 
silicoidos turns transparent, there’s a 
good chance it may explode. When it 
becomes opaque again, the immediate 
danger is over. But you never know 
when it’ll recur again. 

' “That sounds like trouble enough. 
And then along come the Ganymedans. 
They never had a colony on Jupiter, 
mind you. They have no right what- 
ever to the place. But they don’t want 
us to have it either. They say we might; 
use it as a military outpqst, to attack 
them later. As if we had any use for 
their gosh forsaken satellite.” 

“What did they do, General?” asked 
Miko, still with a firm grip on Rover. 

“What didn’t they do? They’re 
mimics, my lad, mimics — carbon crea^ 
tures like you and me, but plastic and 
doughy, with the ability to take almost 
any form they choose. And what do 
they imitate but those confounded sili- 
coidos.” 

Miko’s face wrinkled up. He was try- 
ing to understand. 


SKYROVER 91 


“The result is, we never know whether 
we’re looking at a real silicoido or a 
Ganymedan. If we decide the thing is 
a fake, and we’re wrong, we may scare 
it and make it explode. On. the other 
hand, if we think it’s real, and we’re 
wrong — everything comes to a stop, and 
the Ganymedans have a chance to 
slaughter us unless we watch carefully.” 

“Can’t you shoot them, General?” 
asked Miko respectfully. 

“A shot would make a silicoido ex- 
plode. No, son, we’re on a spot. If we 
could tell the difference between them, 
we’d clean up this place in no time, herd 
the silicoidos into a pen where they 
wouldn’t hurt any one, and be set to go 
on with the building we started. It’s 
because we can’t do that that you find 
soldiers here instead of colonists.” 

“And it’s also because of that,” put 
in Captain Carvo, “that no women, 
children, or dogs are permitted on- this 
planet. The danger’s too great.” 

The General beamed at Miko. He had 
talked himself out of his bad humor. 
“What did you say your name was, son?” 

“I’m Miko Vran. I’m looking for my 
father. Sergeant Vran.” 

“Sergeant Vran?” A grin spread over 
the General’s face. “Well, well! Come 
with me, lad !” 

They found Sergeant Vran. 

Miko had never heard such swearing 
in his life, certainly not from his father. 
Sergeant Vran’s hoarse voice was calling 
down all the evils known on any planet 
upon the heads of the dunderheaded 
fools who had dug a ditch in the wrong 
place, and upset the plans of the entire 
expeditionary force on Jupiter. 

ENERAL MAURER frowned: 
“Sergeant!” he called out sharp- 

iy- 

“Yes, sir.” 

“That’s no way to talk in front of a 
child!” 

“A child, sir?” Sergeant Vran’s gray 
eyes fell upon Miko. A scarlet wave 
seemed to break over his face. “Miko! 
.What are you doing here?” 

“Listening to your profane language,” 
cut in General Maurer. “I think, Ser- 


geant, that from now on you’d better 
keep a close watch over your vocabu- 
lary.” 

“You always told me,” said Miko, 
“that it wasn’t nice to use bad words.” 

The men were grinning now, and the 
scarlet color seemed to become more 
intense, if that were possible, on the 
Sergeant’s face. 

“I’m beginning to wonder,” said Gen- 
eral Maurer coldly, “if my plans weren’t 
a bit hasty. RegulationS'don’t provide, 
Sergeant, that we take care of your son. 
I had intended to leave him in your care, 
until we could ship him back to Mars. 
But I hardly think you’re fit to take 
charge of so young a child. Perhaps I’d 
better find a place for him in the guard- 
house.” 

“The guardhouse?” Sergeant Vran’s 
voice was incredulous. “The general 
surely wouldn’t do that, sir! I’ll take 
care of him!” 

“And teach him some of yoair bad 
language, I suppose?” 

Sergeant Vran swallowed. “No, sir,” 
he said feebly. “I’ll control myself.” 

“Good. But if you don’t — ” General 
Maurer glared at him, then stalked 
away, followed by Captain Carvo. 

Miko exchanged glances with his 
father, then stared at the grinning sol- 
diers. Sergeant Vran shook his head as 
if in a daze. “You — you fellows,” he 
said at last. “You’ll have to dig an- 
other ditch.” 

“Sure, Sarge. But you didn’t finish 
telling us what you thought of us.” 

“Oh, I didn’t?” Sergeant Vran’s face 
became, grim. Suddenly his foot shot 
out, and caught his tormentor in the 
seat of the pants. The man sprawled 
in the ditch he had been digging. 

Vran turned to the others. “Now, 
how about going right ahead with that 
ditch?” 

They began to dig. Miko yawned. 
No matter what planet they were on, 
soldiers seemed to spend most of their 
time digging ditches. He imagined they 
would get bored. 

Rover was chasing after another 
strange life-form. Miko ran after him 
to make sure he didn’t get into trouble. 


92 STARTLING STORIES 


During the next few days, Miko and 
Rover made the acquaintance of the 
Jovian ostrich, which was not a bird at 
all, but a dry land fish with legs. It was 
Rover who learned first that the so- 
called ostrich was capable of making an 
effective gas attack if worried. They 
also ended up on good terms with Wip- 
pler’s snipe — a strange bird which made 
the fables of generations come true by 
flying backwards— with stoneworms, 
and with other relatively harmless speci- 
mens of Red Spot fauna. Meanwhile, 
the, soldiers, under the expurgated 
supervision of Sergeant Vran, continued 
to dig, while the Sergeant hopefully 
counted the days before the next vessel 
was due to return to Mars, bearing his 
son with it. 

Except for the silicoidos, and their 
imitators, there seemed to be no dan- 
gerous life-forms. Miko had the doubt- 
ful pleasure, one day, of seeing a sili- 
coido explosion from a distance of a 
couple of miles away. Even at that dis- 
tance, the roar was so great as to deafen 
him, and fragments of stone kept him 
busy dodging for five minutes. s 

His father gazed at him grimly. “That, 
Miko, is why kids are forbidden on this 
planet. And the sooner you get away 
from here, the better I’ll like it.” 

TRANGELY enough, Miko was not 
scared.. Like all boys, he could ac- 
custom himself to danger quickly, espe- 
cially if he had a dog with him. In one 
way, perhaps, his attitude was a reflec- 
tion of that of Rover. The animal, as 
a matter of fact, regarded the silicodos 
so casually as to throw the soldiers into 
a near-panic. 

One day, while they had been building 
a series of plasteel pillboxes, as a change 
from digging, one of the silicoidos came 
to life. That is, is assumed the trans- 
parent stage, in which an explosion 
seemed likely to come at any- moment. 
As was natural, every one froze — every 
one, that is, except Rover. 

To Rover, the dangerous silicon crea- 
ture was no more than just another 
rock. He stared at it blankly, then fol- 
lowed the trail of a Wippler’s snipe, 


which seemed to lead under where the 
silicoido was slowly moving. 

Sergeant Vran’s face was pale with 
fear, principally for Miko’s sake. His 
lips moved in a manner that indicated 
he had forgotten the promise he had 
made to General Maurer. But at first 
no sound seemed to come from them. 
• Then choking words came from his lips. 

“Get that blasted animal out of there,” 
he said. 

Miko had tried to move forward, but 
one of the soldiers held him back. It was 
$ergeant Vran himself who stepped for- 
ward bravely, seized Rover, and with 
an unspoken prayer in his heart, re- 
moved him from the vicinity. The sili- 
coido came to a stop, twinkled for a 
few seconds, then turned slowly opa- 
que. Several breaths that had been held 
unconsciously were expelled with loud 
sighs. 

Sergeant Vran studied the little mon- 
grel with distaste. 

“I suppose the best thing would be to 
shoot him,” he suggested. 

Miko was appalled. . He threw his 
arms about the endangered Rover. 

“You can’t do that,” he protested. “He 
didn’t do anything.” 

“He almost got us all killed.” 

“I won’t let him do it again.” 

“All right, take it easy,” said Ser- 
geant Vran, somewhat disconcerted by 
his son’s attitude. “I won’t hurt him. 
But I don’t see what a bright kid like 
you wants with such a stupid dog any- 
way.” 

“He isn’t stupid,” declared Miko. 
“He’s really an intelligent dog. How can 
he help it if the thing looks like a rock 
to. him?” 

Sergeant Vran growled to himself, 
but withdrew the suggestion of harm- 
in Rover in any manner whatever. All 
the same, from then on, Miko took no 
chances. On two subsequent occasions 
when a silicoid creature almost fright- 
ened the wits, out of everybody, he kept 
a tight grip on the dog, and did not let 
go until the danger had passed. 

Slowly a week drifted by. On the day 
when the space vessel was to take him 
back to Mars, Miko could detect the 


SKYROVER 9ii 


relieved look in his father’s eye. A few 
more hours, and he would be out of 
danger. Also, once those hours were 
over, Sergeant Vran would let loose in 
language that would blister both the 
ears and the pants off the offending 
privates under his supervision. The 
need for curbing his tongue had put 
him under a severe strain this past week. 

The vessel was being loaded with 
shattered equipment being sent back for 
repairs, with wounded soldiers, with 
some of the strange Jovian animals, de- 
sired for investigation by Earth scien- 
tists. Miko roamed around gloomily. 
Soon would come his own turn. Well, 
whatever they did, one thing was cer- 
tain. He would not go back to Aunt 
Lurena. He would run away again if 
they tried to make him go back. 

Rover was sniffing around uneasily. A 
driller slithered past, just a few inches 
from his nose, but he paid no attention. 
He was too wise by now' in the ways of 
drillers. He was following a trail that 
led past a group of boulders — probably 
silicoidos in a temporarily inactive state. 
Miko moved close to him, ready to grab 
him in case he showed any desire to stir 
them up. 

B UT when the danger did come, 
Miko was too slow. He heard a 
yell from one of the soldiers, and then 
everybody working to load the ship con- 
gealed in his tracks, almost afraid to 
breathe. A silicoido had made its ap- 
pearance from off to one side, and was 
ambling along at a pace that would have 
been quite respectable in a human being. 

Miko’s fingers dug into Rover’s coat, 
but in vain. The little mongrel was 
excited beyond all reason. He tore away, 
leaving Miko’s hands full of short 
brownish hairs, and leaped straight at 
the silicoido. A sigh of horror seemed 
to come from all those who watched. 
There was no help for it now. The 
creature was sure to explode. 

But it did not. Rover barked furious- 
ly, then closed in. The next moment his 
jaws snapped, and a shrill scream rang 
through the air. . 

Pseudopods formed by magic on the 


surface of the creature, writhed out to 
clamp about the small figure of the dog. 
And with that the soldiers sprang into 
action. One of them brought his atomo- 
rifle to his shoulder, but Miko sprang iii 
front of him. 

“No, you’ll kill Rover,” he yelled. 

The soldier hesitated for just a mo- 
ment, then shifted his grip to the muz- 
zle of the weapon, and rushed in swing- 
ing. His comrades were also closing in 
from all directions, so that soon the 1 
two struggling animals were lost to' 
sight. The flailing rifles swung again 
and again and in a matt.er of seconds, 
everything was quiet once more. 

The soldiers stepped back slowly.. 
Rover stood up, a little uncertainly, and 
licked his wounds. Miko dropped down 
beside him. 

“Are you hurt, Rover?” His voice 
was fearful, uncertain. “You’re bleed- 
ing all over.” 

“He’s all right,” one of the soldiers 
assured him. “I’ve seen them come out 
of dogfights looking ten times worse, 
and live. He’s practically untouched.” 

Rover growled, the sound seeming to 
come from way down in his throat. On 
the back of his neck, the hairs were still 
standing on end. 

General Maurer was approaching, at 
a pace that was a bit too fast for his 
dignity as a commanding officer. 

“What’s going on?” he barked. “I 
heard there was a silicoido — ” 

Then he caught sight of the dead 
Ganymedan. “What happened? Who 
killed him?” 

“It was Rover, sir,” said Miko. “Of 
course, the soldiers helped too,” he 
added generously. “But Rover spotted 
him.” 

“You mean that this animal can tell 
the difference between the real silicoi- 
dos and those blasted Ganymedans?” 

Captain Carvo, who was close at hand, 
nodded slowly. “It seems he can. And 
come to think of it, we should have real- 
ized the possibility.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Because a dog recognizes things by 
his sense of smell. The Ganymedans 
are carbon creatures, like us. They emit 



94 - STARTLING STORIES 


« volatile compounds that affect the dog’s 
j olfactory organs. But the silicoidos 
! aren’t organic at all. Hence, ordinarily, 
no volatile by-products. To Rover, 
they’re just like so many rocks.” 

“That’s right; sir,” confirmed Miko. 
“He never paid any attention to them. 
That’s why I had to watch him so close- 
ly. He was apt to scare them by mis- 
take.” 

General Maurer was breathing hard. 
“If somebody had only had the sense to 
send me a dog six months ago,” he said. 
“However, better late than never. I’m 
going to put Rover on a leash and take 
him walking till he’s sniffed out every 
blasted Ganymedan around here. And 
when I do that — I think we’re going to 
have peace. The silicoidos themselves 
will be easy to handle once we get these 
fakers out of the way.” ' 

APTAIN CARVO coughed gently. 
“But General — ” 

“Yes, Carvo?” 

“Sorry, sir — but what about regula- 
tions? Won’t we have to send the boy 
back with his dog? Only members of 
the armed forces are allowed on Ju- 
piter.” 

“Blast regulations!” boomed Maurer. 
“The boy and v the dog will be perfectly 
safe now.” He stopped suddenly, scowl- 
ing at the captain beneath white bushy 
eyebrows. Slowly his choloric face grew 
crimson. “Well — well? You’ve got 
something on your mind. Out with it, 
Corvo!” 

Captain Corvo spoke, trying, unsuc- 
cessfully, to repress his amusement. 
“That clause about armed forces. You 
have the power to recruit intelligent 


life-forms wherever you find them. .If 
you can pin a medal on a lobster — ” 

The General’s face darkened. “Go on, 
confound it! What are you suggest- 
ing?” 

“Well, sir, if you recruit Miko and 
Rover into the army, there would be no 
violation of regulations. And if you 
were to promote them to positions cor- 
responding to their importance to the 
armed forces — you have the power to 
do that too, sir — I think the men would 
be forced to treat them with proper re- 
spect, sir.” 

General Maurer’s eyes widened, then 
narrowed. A slow smile spread over his 
face. “By Saturn, I’ll do it. You’re 
right. By all means we must uphold 
regulations. It’ll be Lieutenant Miko 
Vran and Sergeant Rover. Imagine that 
— Sergeant Rover.” 

“Sergeant Skyrover, sir. In official 
documents, we must use our friend’s 
full name.” 

“Sergeant Skyrover. Yes, if I can pin 
a medal on a lobster — ” He broke off to 
chuckle. “Sergeant Skyrover !” 

Miko listened with interest. Strangely 
enough, he was not elated. It would be 
nice to be a Lieutenant, and to have 
Rover a Sergeant. It would be nice to 
escape going back to Mars, and possibly 
to Aunt Lurena. But poor Sergeant 
Vran! 

Unfortunately, there was no help for 
it. Sergeant Vran would be forced to 
continue bridling his tongue. Because 
if he didn’t — 

Lieutenant Miko Vran sighed gustily. 
Somehow, he just couldn’t get used to 
the idea of sending his father to the 
guardhouse. 


NEXT ISSUE’S HALL OF FAME SELECTION 



¥lie isle : off UnresiMMi 

By 

EDMOND HAMILTON • 

© 

AN AMAZING SCIENTIFICTION CLASSIC! 


P 1 

ZJlii f 




News and Notes from the 


Science Front 



M an-made tidal waves now blast nazi 

SHIPPING — Six-ton blockbusters able to 
blast 40-foot-deep craters in ground 110 feet 
across are now being dropped from RAF 
bombers over water to destroy Nazi shipping 
via the tidal waves their explosion creates. 

When a shower of the monster bombs was 
unleashed recently against a Nazi E-boat pen 
at Boulogne, the only ships out of twenty sur- 
viving the waves set up were a landing craft 
and six small auxiliaries. All the larger ves- 
sels in the concrete boat pens were wrecked 
and the pens themselves severely damaged. 

In many instances, 150-foot E-boats have 
simply vanished after such bombing. The 
new technique was developed when RAF 
bombers noticed that the greatest havoc was 
caused when their bombs missed the pens 
and fell in the water. 


DEAL TEETH FOR FLYING TIGERS— An iaven - 
" tioa by General Robert Ranch, AAF, and 
Charles L. Paulus of Wright Field, may take 
the famed shark’s teeth of the Flying Tigers 
out of the painted-on category and make them 
real. The idea is simple but wicked. The 
forward edges of wings and parts of the side 
of the fuselage are armed with sawtoothed 
strips of metal, so that a fighter plane can cut 
an enemy’s tail assembly to pieces without 
suffering damage itself! 

© 

M edieval weapon brought up to date— 

A modern improvement on a war device 
that goes back to the Greeks and Persians is 
the discovery of Major Brooks Walter, AUS. 
Called a caltrop, it was originally made of 
four sharp spikes radiating from a center in 
such a way that one spike would always point 
upward when the object was dropped to the 
ground. Man or horse stepping on a caltrop 
was generally through for the day. 

Major Walter’s invention has hollow spikes v 
with openings near the ends. Any pneumatic- 
tired vehicle running over one will be punc- 
tured to a fare-thee-well. 

9 

A RMOR BUILT INTO PLANE STRUCTURE— De- 

™ fense rather than attack is the theme of 
a patent granted Robert /. Woods of Grand 
Island, New York, and assigned to Bell Air- 
craft. Armor on current warplanes is added 
after the plane is built, is thereby so much 
extra weight for the plane to carry. Mr. 
Woods proposes to build armor plate directly 
into the plane structure as wing beams, sides 


of fuel tanks and so on, thereby using its 
structural strength as well as its resistance to 
attack by enemy missiles. 


WATER SPIDER IS WEIRD CRAFT— An Orson 
’’ Wellesish water craft has been developed 
for the Navy by Los Angeles inventors V. B. 
Moore and S. P. Tsoneff. It seems to have 
derived its inspiration from those odd preda- 
tory insects that skim about on quiet water 
surfaces and are known as water-spiders. 

The spider’s body has an airplane motor 
and 6tubby wings, intended for balance, not 
lift. It stands, with hinged and braced legs, 
on four small hulls that rest on the water 
surface, is supposed to be able to cover 
choppy surfaces without losing cabin equil- 
ibrium. 

9> 

CLECTRIC CHARGES PREVENT ICING— A new 

“■ angle of attack on the old problem of ice 
formation on airplane surfaces is the invention 
of John D. Larson of Hinsdale, Illinois. In- 
stead of using beat, mechanical cracking or 
some type of chemical coating, Mr. Larson 
proposes to impart to the critical icing areas 
of aircraft a high-voltage, low-amperage 
electric charge which will repel the deadly 
water particles before they have a chance to 
freeze. 


CTREAMLINING FLYING BOAT HULLS— Giving 
' _ flying boat hulls a better shape for air- 
flight is the intent of James F. Parker of Guan- 
tanamo Bay, Cuba. The normal undersurface 
of a flying boat has a stepped structure, like 
a hydroplane, to aid its lift from the water. 
However, the step creates troublesome air 
drag in flight. Mr. Parker obviates this by 
hinging the step, so that it can be retracted 
after the takeoff, making the hull more 
smoothly streamlined. 


MEW TYPE OF GUN MOUNTING— An English 
’ ' inventor, Josef Vesely of Hoddesdon, has 
just taken out an American patent on a mount- 
ing for machine-guns and light cannon that is 
intended to give firmer support in Bring and at 
the same time save weight Essential feature 
is a big helical spring directed vertically 
downward, its free end sharply pointed. The 
idea is to twist this into the ground like a 
corkscrew, thus giving the weapon greater 
stability in action. 




COSMIC 

CHAIN 

By 

roue SMITH 

Bombardier John Blakely Solves 
the Enigma of the Expanding Uni- 
verse— at His Ordained Moment! 

J UST how he got there, the stran- 
ger did not know. All that he 
could be sure of was that he was 
here and, obviously, belonged here. For 
the moment he did not even know his 
own name, his own identity. Dimly, 
vaguely, he recalled that this sort of ex- 
perience had happened to him before. 
He knew only that he was in a half- 
drowsy state from which he would 
awaken to full consciousness in a mo- 
ment. He would recall the history of 
this planet and this solar system so far 
as the inhabitants knew it. But right 
now — in this breathless split-moment on 
the borderline of — of something — he 
was vaguely aware of a past flow of time- 
space continuity which startled and 
amazed him. It was like trying to re- 
call fragments of an indistinct dream. 
He was trembling on the brink of a 
colossal discovery the immensity of 
which was appalling. And suddenly it 
was gone. 

He was wide awake. He knew all 
that his normal brain-pan held in the 
way of knowledge. He was not mad. 
His name was Primo Blanc. He was a 
professor of physics at Tulermo Univer- 
sity on the planet Pirood, one of seven 
worlds in the solar system of Star 64X- . 
942, popularly called Spectros. He was 
fifty-six years old, and he was standing 



As the Dombs geysered into flame, John Biakeiy dis- 
covered the answer 

on a rostrum, facing a classroom of earn- 
est-faced students. More than this, he 
was delivering a lecture, was in the mid- 
dle of a sentence, and was perfectly 
aware of all he had said before, what 
he was now saying, and what he intended 
to add. 

“ — expanding universe. Just what 
this means, no finite mind can really 
grasp. We cannot conceive of a time 
when things were any different, and we 
cannot imagine what sort of conditions 
existed prior to the state of matter as 
we now know it. Geologists, astronom- 
ers, and various men of the sciences, 




THE COSMIC CHAIN 97 


have severally arrived at approximately 
the same conclusion. Our universe is 
about three or four hundred million 
years old.” 

“This very planet has revealed, from 
studies of rock formations and the dis- 
integration of certain radiant metals,” 
the lecturer continued, “that it is about 
the same age as Spectros. Spectroscopic 
analysis of Spectros and the other stars 
has revealed that they are approximately 
the same age. All of the heavenly bodies 
are in motion — outward. 

HE lecturer’s voice rose. 

“All that we are sure of is that 
our universe is expanding, glowing, 
transmitting heat into energy and 
energy into heat, and constantly 
puffing outward,” he said. “Eventually 
the' universe will have expended its ex- 
plosive velocity, will have radiated out 
all of its heat and energy, will have lost 
its impetus. And then, gentlemen, when 
that state has been reached, we shall 
have a black, silent dead universe. 

“Perhaps there is a super-colos- 
sal universe above us, where the birth, 
life and death of our universe is 
simply the momentary explosion of a — 
a vacuo pistol shot. Just as the explo- 
sion of a holiday fusee here in Tulerrao 
which lasts but a second for us may 
constitute the genesis, life span and 
death of a microcosm universe that lasts 
eight hundred million years for crea- 
tures contained therein. There is no 
limit to largeness or smallness of size — 
only relativity.” 

Professor Primo Blanc paused and 
rubbed his seven-fingered hand wearily 
across his domed forehead. Then he 
smiled a bit at the body of students. 

“For a moment I thought I had a more 
concrete answer to the riddle of the uni- 
verse which I could put into words for 
you, but I’m afraid the thought has 
eluded me. That will be all for today, 
gentlemen. Are there any questions?” 

“Try to remember, Professor Blanc,” 
pleaded a student in the front row of 
seats. “What was that elusive thought?” 

Professor Blanc smiled again, a trifle 
uncertainly this time. He wrinkled his 


brow in intense concentration for a mo- 
ment and then sadly shook his head. 

“I cannot, Toval,” he said. “All -that 
comes to me is a queer sort of compound 
word. It is a name — I think. Tek-Dja- 
lex was the word.” 

“As I see it,” said the student, “your 
description of the. universe is a perfect 
description of the explosion of a holi- 
day fusee, Professor. I think your simile 
quite apt.” 

“Perhaps,” agreed Professor Blanc. 
“Tomorrow is the quatro of Juhl. I 
have been honored this year by being 
selected to press the central firing stud 
which ignites the fire fountain display.” 

The ^following evening Professor 
Blanc and his physics class of students 
attended the festivities in a body. Toval, 
the student, was standing close beside 
the professor when the latter, at a given 
signal, pressed the firing stud for the 
special fireworks display. Thus, he was 
the one who caught the professor in his 
arms as the elderly scientist suffered 
his heart attack. He it was who heard 
the strange last words of the dying man. 

“A burst of living flame — the foun- 
tain,” exclaimed Professor Blanc. “Like 
a miniature universe borning, living and 
dying all in a breath of time. I- 1 -” 

He broke off as his face drained of 
color, and he clutched at his breast as 
though in great pain. He staggered 
back, falling into Toval’s arms. 

“Tek-Djalex,” he murmured. “The 
physicist of the lesser universe. Now 
I know — ahhhhhh. . . 

* * * * * 

John Blakely stirred uneasily. Just 
how he had got here, for the moment he 
did not know. Dimly, vaguely, he re- 
called that this sort of experience had 
happened to him before, not once, but 
many times. And yet he could not un- 
derstand it. 

He knew only that he was in a half- 
drowsy state. Perhaps it was the steady 
drone of the Vought-Sikorsky Vindica- 
tor motors which had lulled him to sleep. 
Which was no condition for a bombar- 
dier to be in while on a raiding expedi- 
tion and close to coming on the target. 

But he seemed to be back in the class- 




98 STARTLING STORIES 


room on the rostrum in physics hall, 
addressing a body of students on the ex- 
panding universe. Fragments of phrases 
flitted through his mind — “geologists 
and astronomers are agreed on ap- 
proximately the same figures. Our uni- 
verse is between three and four' hundred 
million years old. . . . All the heavenly 
bodies are in motion outward . . . We 
shall reach finally a state of absolute 
rest . . . present expectancy of another 
three hundred million years . . . like 
an explosion of a cosmic fire-cracker — ” 

ND all the while John Blakely was 
striving to reach out and grasp a 
concrete thought on the mystery of the 
universe that just eluded him. All that 
came to his mind was the name Primo 
Blanc. And suddenly he was wide 
awake, and the pilot’s voice was ringing 
in his ears through the inter-co’m. 

“Coming on target. Take over, Bom- 
bardier Blakely.” 

And the voice of the turret gunner 
blasting through right afterward. 

“A flight of Zeros coming in at three 
o’clock! See ’em. Lieutenant?” 

“Take care of the Zeros, Morton,” 
clipped out the pilot’s voice. “Coming 
on target, Blakely! Do you hear me?” 

John Blakely was instantly at him- 
self.; That elusive thought had vanished 
as though it had never been. 

“Roger!” he said crisply into his 
throat mike, arousing himself and mak- 
ing deft adjustments in his bomb bay. 
“Coming on target, sir. One point to 
the north, Lieutenant. Steady.” Blake- 
ly released his stick of bombs. He never 
noticed the upsurgence of the Vindica- 
tor at the sudden loss of weight. He 
never heard the rattle of the turret gun- 
ner’s Are as Morton opened up on the 
diving Zeros. He was leaning forward 
and his wide-open eyes were following 
the flight of the bombs earthward to the 
Jap airbase on the island below. 

He saw, not the bombs hitting, but 
the sudden mushrooming of a cloud of 
smoke and then the geysering shower of 
flame and sparks and fragments of debris 
blasting heavenward. And in that mo- 
ment the vague and dim thought which 


had evaded him became clear. 

“Primo Blanc!” he cried aloud. “Of 
course! The scientist of the miniature 
universe. I had to trip this stick of 
bombs so that Primo Blanc’s universe 
could exist for a minute of our time— 
so he could fire some minor explosion 
of his own in order that a lesser uni- 
verse could be born for its infinitesimal 
moment of time. A super galaxy is, in 
turn, only an explosion in a greater 
world. Who knows, how far the cosmic 
chain extends downward? Or upward! 

“At last I know the answer to the 
enigma of the expanding universe. At 
last, I — ” . 

John Blakely never finished his 
thought, much less his sentence. A 
stream of machine-gun bullets, spat up- 
ward through the open bomb bay from 
a zooming Zero and stitched a neat row 
of holes the length of his torso. 

“Got another Nip, Skipper,” shouted 
the voice of Gunner Morton. “One 
slipped under our tail, though.” 

“Are you all right, Blakely?” de- 
manded Lieutenant Tomlin. “Watch 
out . for that duck that got through. 
Blakely! Come in, Bombardier!” 

A blast of gunfire sounded from the 
tail blister. “Got that yellow son of Nip- 
pon,” exulted the tail gunner. “All clear, 
Skipper.” 

“Crawl down into the bomb bay and 
check on Blakely,” .ordered the pilot 
crisply. “He doesn’t answer.” 

The Vindicator droned on, circling in 
a tight spiral to head back for base, 
mission successfully accomplished. In 
a moment the tail gunner’s voice 
sounded through the inter -com. 

“Blakely’s gone, fellows.” his voice 
came chokingly. “That last Zero got a 
lucky hit through the bomb doors.” 

“Too bad,” said the pilot through his 
teeth. "He paid for himself, though. 
He got that airbase.” 

“What was that gibberish he was 
shouting about the expanding universe, 
Skipper?” demanded Morton. 

“I don’t know,” replied the lieutenant. 
“All I can say is that the world has lost 
a promising physicist — and we have lost 
an excellent bombardier." 


DARK COMMAND 

(Continued from page 74) 
not know you had a new, improved pro- 
pulsion field transformer called a Lux- 
ton tube. Just now, an instant before 
the Aries broke, up, word of it came 
through to me — on a Mar’s-code com- 
munication beam.” 

The old Martian’s face seemed to 
darken. 

“Temple, our rebellion is at an end. 
Your new field drive does not harm the 
delicate growth cells of our younglings. 
The old field fanned out in all direc- 
tions, but the new field clings like a 
cocoon to the hulls of your cruisers.” 

“We do have an improved field trans- 
former,” Temple gasped. “It generates 
a powerful beam which cannot be cut 
by your interceptors.” 

“Temple, if only I had known about 
the new field nothing would have hap- 
pened.” 

“You would have known,” Temple 
said. “You should have told me about 
.your crippled offspring.” 

T HE old Martian leader shook his j 
head. 

“I wanted to tell you, Temple,” Lig 
Narun replied. “But I was overruled 
and had to abide by the decision of the 
Council. You see, we had a conference, 
Temple,, all of the Martian chieftains. 
We did not know you had a new field 
drive ready to install. We only knew 
that the old drive was deadly and that 
Earthlings can be very stubborn. All 
of your colonization dreams, Temple — 
would your Admiralty have abandoned 
them without a struggle, even to spare 
our young?” 

“Perhaps not,” admitted Temple. 
“Temple, your ships are all driven by 
propulsion fields, without ships you 
could not remain on Mars. Your sur- 
vival depends on keeping the space 
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lanes open. I wanted to go to- you, but 
the Council decided to strike without 
warning.” 

“I understand,” Temple choked. 

“Temple, I should have opposed the 
Council. You are a man of good will. 
Even had you not possessed a new field 
drive you would have fought for us. 
You would have fought for our off- 
spring. You would have been on our 
side.” 

“Yes, I think so,” Temple said slowly. 
“I stand by my friends.” 

For an instant Lig Narun looked at 
Temple. Something, understanding, in- 
finitely sad, seemed to pass between 
them. They were comrades once more. 

Then — Temple’s arm went out and 
around the old Martian’s shoulder. 

“Well, Lig Narun,” he said. “We’ve 
got to get back to the ship if I’m 
going to make out that report for the 
Admiralty.” 

. “A report, Temple?” 

“Yes, it’s customary. But it’s surpris- 
ing how many things you can leave out 
of an Admiralty report without getting 
into hot water with the Colonial Office. 
It really is, Lig Narun.” 



Note on Sale 10c At All Stands 


100 



SIifROEANir SAT9JRN 



© 

T HE dam has bursted! Apparently pro- 
curing the necessary paper out of some 
distant galaxy, the publishers of these 
unique magazines have been increasing so 
rapidly that, except in the cases of the more 
pretentious jobs, ye olde Sarge is going to 
have to limit himself to acknowledgments. 

Before getting down to cases, I want to rec- 
ommend heartily the beautifully mounted and 



lithographed portfolio of ten drawings by the 
late, great Wallace Smith, put out by Ronald 
Clyne and a few associates of the Los Angeles 
LASFS club who bore the cost of the print- 
ing. These drawings are among the finest 
works of their type ever seen by the Sarge. 
THE ACOLYTE, 1104 South Georgia Street, 
Los Angeles 15, California. Editors, Francis 
T. Laney, Samuel D. Russell. Quarterly, 15c 
per copy, four issues 50c. 

Sarge is glad to be able to tell you that this am- 
bitious fanzine is back with a bang after its threat- 
ened suspension with a 30 -page No. 7 issue exclusive 
of covers, packed with stories, poems and features 
by such well-known names as Anthony Bpucher, 
Duane RimeLH. P. Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, 
E. Hoffman Price and many others. Cover by Ma- 
liano and endpiece by John Giunta up to snuff. 

CENTAURI, 515 Ocean Avenue, Pismo 
Beach, California, Editor, Andy Anderson. 
Quarterly. 10c per copy, three issues 25c, 

Another well-printed issue with featured story by 
the editor, a pair of archers on the cover, by Ronald 
Clyne, and Keith Buchanan,' Francis T. Laney, 
James Russell Gray, Harry Warner Jr., and other 
stand-bys inside. Anderson’s No Greater Warrior 
an obvious but reasonably effective hunk of. irony, 
but liked rather better the elaborately Illustrated 
Atlantean parable'called Intolerance by E. T. Beau- 
mont, Winia Bellingham and Charles McNutt that 
accompanied the Issue; 

CHANTICLEER, second issue. 25 Poplar, 
Battle Creek, Michigan. Editor, Walt Lieb- 
scher. 15c per copy. 

Cover, illustrations and cleverly typed borders by 
Jack Wiedenbeck dominated the second issue of this 
bright new r magazine of 30 pages, whose interior 
seemed more dedicated to wise-cracks than to fan- 
zimanla. However, the book review sections were 
excellent, and congratulations to all concerned. 

DIABLERIE, 1299 California Street, San 
Francisco 9, California. Editor, Bill Watson. 
Bi-monthly, Price, 5c. 

Interesting 28 pages containing a tribute to author 
Robert Ervin Howard by E. Hoffman Price, good 
work by Lou Goldstone, Shirley Chapper and Graph 
Waldeyer, as well as top-notch art work by R. Clyne, 
J. Wiedenbeck and Maliano. The cover Is this issue’s 
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weakest feature. Certainly a fat nickel’s worth for 
fantafana. 

EREBUS, c/o Shaw, 1301 State, Schenectady 
4, New York. Editor, Len Marlow, No. 4. 
No price listed. 

Behind the somewhat appalling smile on Editor 
Marlow’s cover nude, this issue contains a story by 
R. L. Dubois, poetry by Marian Crane and a blast 
at the future of fantasy pulps by Ray Karden on 
18 heavy yellow pages. Printing and contents just 
fair this time. 

LUNA PONO, 413 East Park Avenue, Savan- 
nah, Georgia. Editor, Frederick E. Warth, 
Jr. Fifth issue. Price, 5c. 

Imaginative little 8-page Job with an amateur 
look that suggests its editor and his colleagues are 
still in the male bobby-socks era. But more power 
to them for getting the magazine out An article on 
hypnosis by William Farrior, Jr., is about what 
you’d expect. I liked the shorter items better. 

NUZ FROM HOME, 1443 4th Avenue, South 
Fargo, North Dakota. Editor, Walter Dun- 
kelberger. Monthly. Free to servicemen for 
a letter. 

The Sarge is still a little baffled as to how this 
general news letter to Servicemen gets- into the fan- 
zine review section every issue, but it does have a 
good bit of scientifiction fan chatter in its gossip 
columns. For what it Is, a homey chatty, frequently 
amusing little release to lads and ladies In the 
armed forces, it is an excellent job. Again, put a 
price on it, Walter, and give civilians a break. 

SHANGRI-L’AFFAIRS, LASFS Clubroom, 
637^4 South Bixel Street, Los Angeles 14, 
California. Editor, Charles Burbee. Monthly 
magazine, issues 14, 15 & 16. No price listed. 

■This twelve-times-p-year annual of the anticB of 
, the Los Angeles fans, including Lora Crozetti, Mo- 
rojo, Frank Robinson, Ron Clyne, Charles McNutt 
and the others burst forth with added pages and a 
cover in its June and July Issues. The latter is in- 
teresting in that Don Bratton announces the begin- 
ning of, and requests help in making a complete* 
catalogue file or scientifiction. A large order, but if 
the gangs rally round, it should be really something 
worthwhie. 

TELLUS, 475-A Eagle Avenue, Alameda, 
California. Jack Riggs, editor. Eight issues 
per year. Price, 5c per copy., 

More Southern California capers with Riggs, 
James R. Gray and Leslie A. sharing its 16 -odd 
pages with drawings by Joe and E. J. Wyers. Wy- 
ers’ what-is-it on page 12 makes that the oddest in 
the entire magazine. Gaggy. 

VENUS, LASFS Clubhouse, 637*4 South 
Bixel Street, Los Angeles, California, Editor, 
Lora Crozetti. First issue, published irreg- 
ularly. No price listed. 

There is no keeping these Southern California fan- 
tods down. Lora Crozetti. abetted hy Glen Daniels 
has here come up with a new 3 2-page-plus- jacket 
Job on very fancy multi-colored paper loaded with 
fiction by such headliners as Leigh Brackett, Bob 
Tucker and the editors, poetry by. Lynn Starr and 
fantanudes by Joe, Lora Crozetti ‘and Karl Welch. 
This month's star entry in fanzines. Congratula- 
tions, Lora. 

VOM, Box 6475 Metro Station, Los Angeles 
14, California. Published by Snafucius Pub- 
lications. 15c per copy, seven for $1. Issued 
more or less monthly. 

The Variety of fanzines is still Indulging in 
lengthy reader correspondence couched in language 
to spin a Winchell in his cot. The No. 35 cover is 
one of the best, and, for its fans, the magazine Is 
still printed on legal outsize paper and is packed 
with news they like to hear. . 1 

XENON, 1217 Broadway, Imperial, Nebraska. 
Second issue. Editor, Gordon Rouze. Price, 
25c for three issues, published irregularly. 

Contains a story by James R. Gray, sicentifleatioh 
reviews by John Blaekstone and an interesting ar- 
ticle by Dorothy C. Walter on “Lovecraft and Bene- 
fit Street.” interlarded with some sad Kruegerian 
humor and even sadder art But on the whole a 


102 


lively and needed magazine for mid-west sotentl- 
fantods. 

Old Sarge wishes to acknowledge grate- 
fully the following letters and mimeographed 
sheets for which there is no reviewing space 
in this magazine. He’ll try to have room for 
all of them next time. 


BLACK STAR, issues No. 5 and No. 6, 84 Baker 
Avenue, Dover, New Jersey, Editor, Joe Kennedy. 
Published monthly. Free to SISFA members. 

COSMIC DUST. 1207 East Henry Street, Savan- 
nah, Georgia. Editor, Walt Kessel. Published ir- 
regularly, price 6c per copy. 

FANEWS WEEKLY, 1443 4th Avenue, South 
Fargo, South Dakota. Editor, Walter Dunkelberger. 
Now on its second year. 2c per copy, 13 Cor 25c. 

FANTASY NEWS. Box 7316, Baltimore 27, Mary- 
land. Editor, Will Sykora. Rates, 3 issues 10c, 8 
Issues 25c; 32 issues, ?1. No stamps. Published 
tri-weekly. 

FANTASY FICTION FIELD, 6401 24th Avenue, 
Brooklyn, New York. Editor, Julius Unger. Pub- 
lished weekly. 5 c per copy, 6 for 25c. Still the 
eastern stand-bye. 

FANTASY TIMES, 446 Jelliff Avenue, Newark, 
New Jersey. Editor, Sam Moskowltz. Monthly, 5c 
per copy. 

PHAN, 1299 California Street, San Francisco 9, 
California. Bill Watson Editor. Published weekly. 
2c per copy, 6 for 10c. 

STELLAR, 2090 East Tremont Avenue, New York 
62, New York. Austin Hamel, editor. Published 
monthly. 5c per copy, 6 for 25c. . 


Also received was something called a COS- 
MIC BOOKLET featuring a James V. Tau- 
rasi opus entitled The Magician of Space, a 
semi-literate story of weird doings on an 
earth-bound spaceship. He promises more of 
same in the near future. 

Well, that’s the list, and we haven’t even 
room to cover the newsletters as usual. The 
old Sarge has barely time to lock his ship up 
tight and take off on the Zeno patrol, which 
cant’ wait, 

Get your fanzines in early for review in our 
next issue, and thanks a lot, all of you. The 
spirit is always willing, even if occasionally 
your mimeograph machines seem a trifle weak. 
Keep ’em coming ! 

— SERGEANT SATURN. 


Visit a Weird Universe of Frozen Time in 

THE 

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103 



By 


(is that the original illo?) and Marchlonl for a 
short. r 

So I’ll leave you with a pat on the back, binocu- 
lars trained on the next iah that looks really good 
and the optomistic hope that we’ll get a good cover. 
— 68 Madabury Rd., Durham, N. H. 

Who’s being literal, Kiwi Perry, you or 
Bergey? Those bems are black enough to be 
hard to find on a dark night on Mars. Besides, 
they should have a ruby tinge, if you know 
your Mars at all. It’s the red planet, isn’t it? 
Send along the fanzines and. give us. a crack at 
your work. It will be a pleasure. 

KINDER TREATMENT 

Austin Hamel 

I have thoroughly perused the latest STARTLING 
STORIES, and here Is my verdict, (HHArummph !) 

Feature story by Leigh Brackett was far above 
. average. Leigh’s dramatic writing is different from 
the general run-on-the-mlll type. The most likable 
character in the story was Kyra. Leigh did use 
plenty of Blood 'n thunder though ! On every page 
the hero was either knocked out, gassed, or knifed. 
It tended to drag out a little in parts, but it still 
maintained interest throughout the whole yarn. 

Donnell did an excellent job of Illustrating It. 
Oh, for the original of the Illustration on page 13 ! 
Y'know, this is either the first time, or one of the 
very rare times when a woman illustrated a wom- 
an's story in. a STF magazine ! 

As to the short stories. They were better than 
many since SS first started. They have set a new 
standard with this issue. First of course was the 
great Hall of Fame story by D. D. Sharp. This, 
of course was better than the novel. Secondly, was 
the last story to appear, the Invisible Vandals. It 
w'as fair through the yarn, but the end cinched it ! 
Very good Charles Stoddard. The other two were 
very good also. In all, an above average issue. 
The art work, letter column and the stories were 
all good. 

;But the cover. A toothpaste advertisement. See, 
everybody except the bald-headed character on the 
lower right shows his teeth. The repulsive gent on 
the lower left has just tasted that potent liquid, 
Xeno. He is showing his opinion by facial contor- 
tion. Ah ! but the red-headed, in fact red-bodied gent 
at the upper right has just tasted a more fiery liquid. 
XZVM. The damo Is losing her false teeth and 
struggles to get them back in place. Meanwhile 
the hero is playing with his rattle, and is forcing a 
smile for the camera. 

The blatt column was good. Kennedy was very 
good ! I agree with his condensed novels. A marked 
improvement. But Joe can really write better. And 
draw, better too.' (Joe, the knife Is too high. Its 
starting to tickle ! ) Other good letters by Mickey, 
Walker, Sehnert, Pace, and Gray; Krueger was 
good too. 

Ahhhh ! The next issue ! The long awaited sequel 
to that swell yarn, “City of Glass !’’ I can Just pic- 
ture it now, the next issue that is, an intricate robot 
cover, the inside illustrations done by Wesso, who 
illustrated “The City of Glass." The novel itself 
running no less than 115 pages. So what If there 
are only 114 >4 Stick the last page on the back 
cover ! 

Seriously STARTLING STORIES is picking up 
beautifully after a sharp rut It was doing swell 
until Winter, and even then the main novels were 
good, but you seemed to be forgetting about the 
rest of the magazine! Ah, but it looks like we 
are really picking up. 

By the way. How many of you heard the recent 
batch of Sclfantasy programs over the air. Some 
are good ! 

Also there are many Scifantasy movies, but most 
are pretty awful. Now that Captain Future is no 
more, is it possible that w© will be seeing him in 
SS? Who knows? Hoping for a good next-issue. — 
8090 Ea$t Tremont Ave., New York 62, N. Y. 

Glad you liked “Shadow Over Mars” and 
Donnell’s illustrations, as well as the short 
stories — let’s throw an onion to Perry for his 
snobbery in the letter above yours. But some 
of your pee-lots ought to be able to find an- 
other target for snide cracks beyond poor Be'r- 


THE ETHER VIBRATES 

(Continued from page 8) 

gey. That gal was really a triple-plated 
Ganymedean apian honey, as any red-blooded 
fool could plainly see. 

MISTAKEN IDENTITY 

By E. Everett Evans, President NFFF 

Dear Sarge: Just received my copy of START- 


. LING from the newsstand, and was agreeably sur- 
prised to see that you liked the little concept of 
yourself that appeared in my FAPAzine, “A Tale 
of the ‘Evans.’,” 

However, I am sorry to note that you gave me 
credit for drawing It, when it was done by that 
really fine Fan artist, Jack Wiedenbeck. I, myself, 
cannot draw at all. • 

Would it be too much trouble for you to make 
that correction in your next issue. It is perhaps 
a minor matter, but we here at Sian Shack, as well 
as the balance of active Fandom, feel that Jack 
is a really fine artist, that I’d like to see him have 
the credit that belongs to him. 

He is now drawing a cover for a new fanzine 
that I’m planning to put out soon, and I’ll see that 
you get a copy. Wiedenbeck also does the Air-brush 
covers for NOVA and EN GARDE, and most of the 
other illustrations. 

Brackett’s story was excellent. The gal really 
can write and has a distinctive style all her own. 
The rest of the issue was quite better than par. 

How about "The Nth, Man” sometimes, in your 
Hall of Fame. I still think it the best of the “big 
man” stories. 

Wishing you continued success and very best of 
luck l 

Blame it on the fact that War tears, the lug, 
put a large chunk of unvaporized Uranian rock 
salt in the Comet refrigerator, side by side 
with the ready-to-imbide stock of Xeno. The 
effects were terrific, and when we came out 
of the ether, we had put the old spaceship 
right through the middle of a couple of 9th- 
magnitude twin suns and fused our airlock 
gaskets. 

But we have called attention to the error 
twice now, and, with all due apologies to ex- 
cellent artist Jack Wiedenbeck, think that’s 
enough. Particularly as the drawing in quesr 
, tion was so supremely unflattering. We 
haven’t yet doped out what that stuff is grow- 
ing out of our head, if you can call it a' head. 
But, oh well— and thanks for the amiable 
criticism contained in the rest of your letter, 
Kiwi Evans. 

CRIT CRACKS 

By Gene Hunter, S2/2c, USNR 

Dear Sarge: It’s been a good year or more since 
I served a hitch aboard the good ship STARTLING 
STORIES, and I’ve barely time to make this voy- 
age. By the time you receive this I will be gone 
from this beautiful convalescent hospital on the 
shores of Santa Cruz, California, and Klono only 
knows where I’ll be when this is printed. 

The current S. S. is undoubtedly the best this 
year. Bergey’s cover is typical SS-TWS work, only 
fair. This is the third such painting this year, 
Sarge. A change will be welcome. Give . Bergey a 
rating of 2.5, and while you’re at it, a vacation as 
well. 

As for the interior work, it was good, but not as 
.fine as the preceding two 1944 issues. Spring saw 
your art average a nice 3.0, Summer 2.928, with 
only 2.642 for this, the Fall issue. I take it Don- 
nell did the' illustrations for the novel. If so, I’m 
glad to see she has discarded the Finlay technique. 
Donnell averages 3.0 as compared to 3.666 for last 
time, Kramer and Morey both make 2.5, and Mar- 
chioni a 2.0 as against 1.0 for- summer. I missed 
Finlay this issue, Sarge. Hint, hint. 

SHADOW OVER MARS— Leigh Brackett— 4.0. 
Excellent ! A minor classic, Leigh, and I believe 
it’s the best story of yours that I’ve read. STAR- 
TLING STORIES can well be proud to have pre- 
sented this novel. 


In the letter column of another magazine, one 
Alan Mannion, one of the better letter-hacks, con- 
tinually writes that he lives each story ; that he 
is there fighting beside the hero every minute. Sad- 
ly, I can’t say the same. It takes an author who 
writes about people rather than characters to hold 
my attention. But I can honestly say that I lived 
SHADOW OVER MARS. I admired Rick Urquhart, 
yet I pitied him more. I loved Mayo McCall, and I 
hated Fallon and Storm intensely. When Kyra died 
I was sorry, for she was a friend, not just a color- 
less character moving across a printed page. The 
New Town, with its vice and brawling and burlesque 
shows was a real city, not just a figment of Brack- 
ett’s imagination. It could have been the foreign 
quarter of any city here In America. You thought 
of Los Angeles’ Main Street, didn’t you Leigh. 

Again, my congratulations, Miss Brackett, for an 
excellent story. 

THE COSMIC DOODLER— Carl Jacobi— 3.0. This 
is one of the author’s few really good yarns. Nicely 
told. Keep it up. 

THE DAY OF THE BEAST— D. D. Sharp— 2.5... 
Only average, following the usual trend with your 
"Hall of Fame” stories. BEYOND THE SINGING 
FLAME last issue was the exception to the rule. 

THE MAD DOMNEYS— ' Verne Chute— 2.5. Amus- 
ing little fantasy, but nothing new. 

THE INVISIBLE VANDALS— Charles Stoddard 
— 2.0. Mediocre. Just another story with a slight- 
ly tricky ending, as far as I'm concerned. No credit 
to the magazine — in fact It lowered its rating. 

And so we find the Fall issue the best so far in 
this year. Spring averaged 2.5, Summer 2.704, and 
Fall 2.734. Not a great deal better than Summer, 
to be sure, but an improvement. Now break the 
8.0 mark with the Winter number, and I’ll say 
STARTLING STORIES is ready to take its place 
among the leading magazines once more. 

I found few letters Interesting in THE ETHER 
VIBRATES. MICKEY was O. K., but a bit too 
idealistic for me. I admired Sehnert's stand, and 
agree with him entirely about the Hall of Fame 
series. I’ve said it before privately, and I’ll say it 
again openly. Weinbaum’s van Manderpootz series 
was little better than average science-fiction. There. 
I’ve said it. What fandom in general is going to 
think I'm sure I don’t know, but the fact remains 
that Weinbaum did not do his best work for the 
old WONDER STORIES. 

A very small fraction of the reprints that you 
call classics live up to that name. Like most of 
the short stories of the era in which they were 
first printed, they cannot stand up beside most of 
the science-fiction published today. The same is not 
true about the longer stories. WONDER STORIES 
novels, novelettes, and serials were, for the most 
part, excellent. Those are the yarns that should be 
hailed In your Hall of Fame department, instead of 
the average and mediocre stories such as THE DAY 
OF THE BEAST, Van Manderpootz, etc. 

Print some of the old WONDER STORIES and 
SCIENCE WONDER STORIES novels. Print them 
as serials. If need be, but print them. Don’t argue 
that STARTLING Is a quarterly and that it is not 
advisable to run serials, for a . serial appeared in the 
first Issues of CAPTAIN FUTURE— I can’t recall 
the title, but It proved to be Immensely popular 
there, and ironically enough. It wasn’t well liked 
originally. If the newer fans could read such stories 
as THE TIME STREAM and THE GREEN MAN 
,OF GRAYPEC, to mention only two. they would 
form a different opinion of yesterday’s sclencerflc- 
tlon. 

It is evident to the old Sarge that Seaman 
Hunter is a critic to the manner born — not 
that critics, even in the farthest-flung regions 
of space know either manner or manners, any 
more than they do on Earth. Just how he 
manages to reduce something as intangible as 
his opinions of someone else’s stories to such 
a mathematical base is beyond this weary old 
space traveler’s abilities, mathematical or 
otherwise, to fathom. 

But at any rate, he has opinions and states 
them thoughtfully and sincerely — not just 
sounding off as so many of the correspondents 
to bre’er Saturn seem to delight in doing. 
We’ll take a slam over the head from this pee- 
lot ahead of the raves of some other kiwis 
we know! 

[ Turn page ] 




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100 


POOR "MR. DONNEL" 

By Ken Harmon 

Dear Sarge : I write you to express my delight 
over two things in SS. The first, is the finding of a 
new artist. Donnel is good. He is different from 
Finley and Paul, but ie as good as either. Oh for 
a cover by him. ✓ 

The other is for the first appearance of Leigh 
Brackett in this mag. “Shadow Over Mars” is a 
classic in the true sense of the word. Although not 
another “Moon Pool,” it is way up there. It is the 
best story to appear in SS this year. 

Although the cover was the best this year (good 
issue, what) I think that Bergey needs a rest. The 
best interior was Donnel on page 13, second Donnel 
on page 11, then Donnel on page 1?. The rest 
were poor. Why only three illustrations per novel? 

I close with one note of happiness. After seeing 
your picture I think that you are not as bad as I 
thought. Not bad — not bad at all. . . . Sincerely. — 
627 Channing , Palo Alto, Calif. 

Ho hum. I don’t suppose it will be of any 
use, since we have been howling at your un- 
observant Neptunian pythons for many long 
Jupiter moons to no avail, but your favorite 
illustrator’s name is not “D. Donnel” a he, but 
Dorothy Donnell, a she and a darned compe- 
tent one at that. 

Otherwise, thanks for the nice cracks — 
about la Brackett and the others. As to the 
illustration limit, these days the paper short- 
age makes it imperative. Otherwise, we’d 
have to cut out large hunks of novel, which 
might or might not cause other readers to 
howl like Mercurian coyotes. 

SAL PEE-LOT’S OPINION 

By Joy Stillman 

Dear Sarge: This is the second missive I am 
tossing your way. and since the first one, I am an 
infinitely wiser girl and will not follow the old 
style of. complaining about each and every story. 
The only story I would like to comment about is 
the one by Leigh Brackett. Miss Brackett has a 
distinctively different way of writing than any of. 
the other writers in the magazine. Her choice of 
words and her descriptions are beautiful. I believe 
Miss Brackett would be very successful writing 
poetry. SHADOW OVER MARS is one of the best 
stories I’ve ever read in this magazine. 

Earle K. Bergey evidently didn’t read Miss Brack- 
ett’s story, or at least not very carefully. In the 
story, Mayo was wearing a coverall that covered her 
up to the neck. As you can see by the cover, Mayo 
certainly is not wearing a coverall. 

Sarge. the paper shortage Is terrible. Every once 
in a while I make the rounds of the various sta- 
tionery stores in search of certain well-known maga- 
zines . . . they are not there. I am told firmly they 
have all been sold. I have already missed several 
issues of all three science fiction companion maga- 
zines. The funny, part of it all Is, Sarge, I have yet 
to meet one of these buyers. In fact I have never 
met one science fiction fan yet. and I have it on good 
authoritv that gremlins do not read STARTLING 
STORIES. 

I am writing to you because in the last issue there 
were no letters from gal pee-lots. I know you are 
not prejudiced against girls so. I guessed that none 
wrote in. What would science fiction do without 
that feminine touch? — 65 Central Park .West, New 
York, N. Y. 

You’re right, Joy, the old Sarge is anything 
but prejudiced against girls pee-lots — in fact, 
the prejudice seems to run the other way. 
Maybe some of the drawings of old SS the 
male readers have been sending in have been 
scaring you lady bugs away— frankly, they’d 
scare a Venusian atheuro-crocodile right out 
of his seven-year skin. Why don’t some of you 
gal pee-lots give us a sample of what you 
think we look like — and make it purty? 

But thanks for the letter, and if you’ll read 
the notices scattered through SS and its com- 
panion, TWS, you’ll see that it is advisable to 
place your orders for the books in advance at 


your nearest newsstand. Paper rationing has 
limited sadly the number of copies we can 
print. 

KENNEDYTHON 

By Joe Kennedy 

Dear Sarge : Leigh Brackett’s novel in the Fall ; 
STARTLING proved exceptionally readable, but I’ve 
seen her do better. There’s still no modern pulpist 
who can handle an adventure story as she does, 
though. Take another look at the way those chap- 
ters are numbered, O ye Linotypists ! Tsk. 

As for the drawing of the Sarge on page 6. the 
style and signature belong to the skillful fan artist.. 
Jack Wiedenbeck, not E. Everett Evans, whom you 
gave the credit to. Another tsk. By the way, 
Sarge, thanx for publishing my cartoon of you in 
TWS. 'Twas rather hacky, but I admittedly got a 
kick out of seeing it in print. 

Fanzine reviews continue to intrigue. I like VOM 
and NOVA, too. Review's of Cosmic Circle Club 
propaganda faintly humorous. Thanx again for 
mentioning QX THE CARDZINE. I’m planning a 
full-size FMZ to be known as VAMPIRE, and will 
send you a copy when it appears. 

Armed with zatch-ray and mold-gun, I once again 
descend into the namless fungoid-lined caverns of 
THE ETHER VIBRATES. ... 

John Cunningham’s comments - were one of the 
bright spots this trip, but (quote) I suggest that you 
pick shorter Hall of Fame Classics (unquote). . . . 
Cunningham, thou art a. traitor to the cause ! 

Rusty Gray came through with a nicely expressed 
Ethergram as usual, pjid Ken Krueger's exuberant 
remark place him high on this issue’s hit parade. 
If you need any help shooting some of those artists, 
Ken. just, call on me. I keep a tommy-gun stored 
in my closet for such purposes. (To whomever is 
reading this: You may laugh now.) 

Benson Perry and Mart Mickey deserve a few as- 
sorted bravos . for their neat letters. As for the 
latter — yes, world unity is desirable, but, frankly. 
It will take more than a handful of science-fiction 
pulps to bring this about. 

In answer to, Tom Pace: 

Sure thing, Tom. I was an American Roy STFol- 
lower. Dragged out some old copies today and re- 
discovered some fine Carl H. Claudy tales . . . “Ter- 
ror by Temperature” . . . "Holes — Holes — Holes” 

. . . "Tongue of Beast” ... a superb novel. “Re- . 
turn to Mars” . . . also a top-notch' short, “Rocket 
to the Sun.” by Peter van Dresser, who edited the 
official publication of the American Rocket Society, 
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ASTRONAUTICS. . . . Most of these stories were 
coupled with terrific, rocket pix by William Heasllp. 

Then there was a splendid article called “Let’s 
Leave Earth,” by van Dresser and Franklin M. Reck. 
It described an imaginary space flight in 1979 to 
a man-made steel sateltte 700 miles from Earth. 

Some wide-awake publisher (ahem!) should ar- 
range to reprint a selection of this excellent material 
in some form or other. It is not- Juvenile. 

Austin Hamel, who had a letter in the Fall Issue, 
is apparently a Claudy fan. I visited him several 
weeks ago and noticed a nice set of “Alan Kane” 
books on his shelf. What about it, Aust? 

Sgt. Strn is mrvlus at wrtng hdngs 4 ltrs. . . 
Simplified grammar there. Sometimes he play- 
fully uses the • same letter blurb twice, thinking 
nobody will notice— -but fen are all-seeing, all-know- 
ing, etc. 

A plea, noble sergeant, for a speck of publicity 
to an up-and-coming fanclub. ’,Tis the “Society for 
the Improvement of Science-Fiction in America,” a 
correspondence club. Main interest of the SISFA 
is to introduce SF readers to active fandom. If any- 
body in the audience Is interested in joining drop 
a note to the president, Henry Eisner, Jr., 13013 
Cedar Grove, Detroit 5, Mich. Au Revpir ! — 8* 
Baker Avenue, Dover, N. J. 

We’d better handle your questions, cracks 
and other remarks in order, Kiwi Kennedy. 
First, about those two chapter sevens in 
“Shadow over Mars.” Well, there isn’t much 
we can say except that, as most fantods know, 
seven is a cosmically lucky number, so why 
blame anyone for using it twice? Maybe the 
linotypist or editor in question had his mind 
on last night’s interstellar robot dice game. 

Credit for last issue’s Sarge Saturn cartoon 
has already been rearranged in this depart- 
ment, though why credit (!) is beyond our 
Xeno-warped faculties. And when VAMPIRE 
comes out, send it around for the fanzine re- 
views. We’ll guarantee to suck a little blood 
out of it — if it contains any corpuscles. 

On those “American Boy” yarns you put on 
the ether rave for, we’ll look it up and see 
what can be done — -but no promises until the 
war is over. Thanks for the suggestions, any 
way. You will find we- gave the SISFA a 
mention in the fanzine review department. So 
sit back and await results, if any. 

CHAD ROW 

By Chad Oliver 

Dear Sarge: The good ship STARTLING STO- 
RIES, after sailing through the intricate channels 
of Uncle Samuel’s postal service, finally docked at 
j Ye Locale Bookshoppe, at which point it was avidly 
snatched up by yours .truly. Having consumed and 
digested the Fail cargo, the One-man Gallup Poll 
has decided to grant you the rather debatable honor 
of a report on same. Yeah, Sarge — Xeno is the only 
way out ! 

First off, suppose we dissect the lead novel. 
“Shadow Over Mars” is one of the best yarns I’ve 
ever read by Miss Brackett, and I’ve read plenty of 
swell stories from her talented typewriter. Perhaps 
it seems rather pale when compared with some of 
the great novels from STARTLjNG’s past— “Five 
Steps to Tomorrow,” “The Fortress of Utopia,” 
“Twice in Time,” eta— but this Brackett tale cap- 
tured some of the spirit and fire of those early 
novels ; something that has been notable through its 
absence of late. “Shadow Over Mars” was definitely 
good stuff, and It even had Its moments of greatness. 

I liked especially the little injections of fantasy 
found throughout the story — they were a definite 
asset. More from Miss Brackett if on a par with 
this stoiy, would be most welcome. 

The proverbial Bergey blotch on the cover has its 
redeeming features, this trip ; an unusual number of ‘ 
them, in fact. For one thing, it depicts a scene 
from the story, and is accurate in same. (Horrible 
thought of the month — has Bergey learned how to 
readt) Another redeeming quality is the fact that 
both humans are unusually well-drawn — long, low 
whistle at this point — and their faces, especially 
are excellent. 

Lastly, the light blue background is a pleasant 
thing indeed after the lurid reds and yellows all too 


103 



common in magazine covers. However, there are 
also two items wrong about the painting. For one 
thing, the BTMs (a new twist by Boogyman Ber- 
gey ; Big Toothed Monsters) are amusingly uncon- 
vincing. Also, there's too much action in the pic- 
ture. Oh, for a nice, sedate spaceship cruising 
among the stars. . . . More shattered dreams of 
youth, I suppose. 

That about takes care of the cover. For fur- 
ther information, I suggest that you contact some 
nationally known artist like Raphael or Finlay. 

Sharp’s “The Day of the Beast” was a good tale, 
but hardly a Hall of Fame story of stfantasy or any- 
thing else. It has its moments, however, and the 
Morey pic is really horrific. 

Of the shorts, “The Cosmic DoodleT by Jacobi is 
about the best, which is saying absolutely nothing. 
‘The Mad Domneys” by Verne Chute wasn’t too 
awful, and places next. “The Invisible Vandals ’ by 
Charles Stoddard was very, very sad. 

Of the interior pix, the Morey for the Stoddard 
story struck me as the beat, with, the vague but in- 
teresting full-pager on Page 13 tied with the Morey 
reprint for second place. , . .. 

The departments were, as usual, both good ana 
bad. “The Ether Vibrates" is the best of the good, 
and “This Startling War” is the worst of the bad. 

And now, if I may. I’d like to make a few re- 
quests. I’ll try not to ask for authors not at the 
present time writing ; the same goes for artists. How 
about novels by Manly "Wade Wellman. Jack Wil- 
liamson, Henry Kuttner, and Neil R. Jones? Es- 
pecially the latter, whom I haven’t seen in some 
time but who can really write. Of the authors about 
whom I’m not sure as to whether or not they’re still 
available, how about Eando Binder, Ray Cummings, 
and Edmond Hamilton? Among the artists, let’s see 
a novel illustrated by Bok or J. Allen St. John. 
Who laughed ? — 3956 Ledpewood, Cincinnati, Ohio. 

That, fen firneds, was a real dissection. 
Oliver and his serene spaceships! But at 
least poor Bergy came off better here than in 
other fen screams. Not much has come in from 
Jones, Binder or Williamson of late, but 
spacebrothers Wellman, Cummings and Ham- 
ilton are still on top, and Henry Kuttner just 
got out of the Army and is hard at work on a 
longie for one of the mags. So you’ll be see- 
ing them, and soon, Kiwi Oliver. 

BRACKETT AND BERGEY GO 
BRAGH! 

By George M. Frank 

Dear Sarge Saturn: Come on, all you stf fans, 
let's raise the roof into the spaceways, shouting in 
one vast harmonious ehoruB: “Thre© cheers to Miss 
Leigh Brackett !" Let the npws reverherate through- 
out the universe: “Leigh is crowned queen of science 
fiction!” „ , .. . _ _ 

Yessir! "Shadow Over Mars is one jim-dandy ad- 
venture of the future, jammed and' crammed with 
thrills and chills. It elevates her among the top- 
notchers of stf novels. Long may she wave. She’s 
captured me for a Brackett fan till my black hair 
turns white. Nor is that all. She should pose fqr 
Bergey for an SS cover and prove that beauty and 
brains go hand-ln-glove. 

Not that Bergey isn’t doing a swell job as is. He 
now shines out as the brightest star of stf cover 
artists. His characters here are so life-like they all 
but walk off the paper. The grim tenseness of the 
situation whips through the mind — a. Hercules of 
the future fighting for his beloved Hebe. And those 
monsters are enough to send shivers down Frank- 
enstein’s spine. In fact. I’m betting Leigh was 
startled to see her “Martian bleedhounds” looking 
so horrible, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t 
do any nocturnal beachcombing for many moons. 
Let’s award Bergey a silver cup full of orchids. 

“Shadow Over Mars” completely dominates this 
} ssue _and yet "The CoBmlc Doodler” and "The Day 
of the Beast” deserve the rank of Lieutenant Swell 
Snorts. "The Invisible Vandals” trails close behind. 
But what haggard old, three-legged, one-eyed feline 
drug "The Mad Domneys” in by the whiskers! It 
belongs in some kids’ book of fairy tales— but defi- 
nitely. “Thrills in Science” are always good — and 
the letters, too. Particularly those by Mickey, 

Hamel. Gray, Krueger. 

Oh Evans, heavens! Who tossed you over the 
high tension wires and stepped up the current? 

[7\irnpage] 


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Only terrific voltage could make the termites dance 
in your attic to enable you to Imagine our dear ole 
sarge looked like the Frankensteinish monstrosity 
from the phosphorescent catacombs of Ganymede. 
No one imbiding the elixir of xeno could possibly 
grow so hideous. Rather, picture a snowy-haired 
old owl — pardon, gentleman — seven feet tall, hand- 
some as Hector in happy humor. 

Ah yes, Mart Mickey, super-nationality, could create 
an Earthian Eden when this holocaust of war dies 
out, what with all the modern scientific discoveries 
to make life more secure, if Homo Sapiens would 
but swallow his confounded greedy ego. Consider 
the new llfe-lengtheners : Sulfa drugs, penicillin, 
ACS, radioactive zirconium, polligen, nerve and vein 
grafts, cartilage banks, food yeast, anaesthetic gas 
machine, magic surgical crystals,- infra-red cooking, 
autojector, DDT, electric shock grief-allayer, "smog- 
less” cities, etc. 

Straight out of science fiction comes: Color tele- 
vision, invisible glass, high vacuum, elastic iron, 
plastic plywood, wireless power transmission, elec- 
tronic power, plastic planes, ' automatic auto-driver, 
photo-electric scanner, magnetic wire record, ultra- 
violet microscope, plastic houses and furniture, 
microwaves in industry, airline highways. Jet-pro- 
pelled planes, microwave blind flying, assembly-line 
houses, hydro-electric power, solar heater, screw- 
bladed plow, three-dimensional movie, X-ray fingers, 
magnetic brakes, invisible platinum wire, thermo- 
plastic, electronic traffic and railway signals, etc. 
Also, sky-trains and radio-beam helicopter travel di- 
rected by traffic control stations and "stacking” 
traffic are things merely a stone’s throw in the 
future. Yessir, life in the future can be a virtual 
living in paradise, if Homo Sapiens .will but swal- 
low his avid ego. 

Now, before I slip into the ether-waves, I would 
like to locate a copy of "Science of Life” by H. G. 
Wells, repbrted out of print. Would anyone sell me 
a late copy, in good condition, and how much? — 
R. F. D. Butler, Ohio: 

Such a rave with but one small request — 
and perhaps some of you other pee-lots could 
guide Kiwi Frank to a copy of H. G.’s “Science 
of Life.” But mayhap, the lad’s sincere, and 
our interspatial ego can sprout luxuriously 
undef the blazing sun of his comments. Hope 
the brave new postwar world shapes up as 
amiably as it looks to you , frere Frank. But 
you should get a load of the grief they still 
have on some of our more advanced planets. 
There has even been a threat of a Xeno short- 
age on Uranus, due to a strike on the part of 
the treader birds. We’re off as soon as our 
current chores are finished to settle it before 
the ultimate horror occurs— Xenobition! 

Well, this brings us down to the close of an- 
other saturnine session with Saturn. So get 
back to your posts, you wall-eyed astrogoons — 
yes, that means you, Wartears, and Snaggle- 
tooth and Frogeyes! Stop kicking those gal- 
loping astro- dominoes around and put the . 
old space lizzie into super-high gear. 

We’ve got to crack this Xeno strike on 
Uranus before the superheater dries up the 
entire crop of Xeno weed. Your Sarge is 
already regarding the near future as desperate, 
and Neptunian Xeno is only fit for the deni- 
zens of that miserable planet. 

' Ahoy and farewell, fantods. The astroga- 
tion chamber is yours until the big next issue 
of SS rolls around. You won’t be wanting to 
miss Captain Future now that he’s sharing 
the same interspatial clubhouse.. Till then, 
may you land on the planets you aim for, 
Kiwis! —SERGEA NT SATURN. 

IMPORTANT NOTICE 

Wartime paper rationing makes it impos- 
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to meet the demand. To be sure of getting 
YOUR copy, place a standing order with your 
regular newsdealer. 



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'Meet the 
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Noel Loomis Gives Us the 
Low-Down on Noel Loomis 

EADERS of the featured novel in this 
issue will want to know a little about 
its author, Noel Loomis, who found 
time, despite his war job as a linecasting me- 
chanic in Minneapolis, to write this splendid 
sequel to “City of Glass.” 

And those of you who read Mr. Loomis’ ac- 



count of himself in this column will realize 
how much being a writer is like learning to 
play golf — most of the time you’re either 
missing easy putts or digging divots in rough 
or trap. v But every so often you hit one nice 
and long and straight, and it’s the memory of 
and hope for these hard high ones that keep 
you going. But Mr. Loomis gives you the 
gory details in person. 

So let’s take a look at his record. 

I sold my first story In 1335. It was a short 
short that brought $25, and that blue check was 
the most thrilling piece of paper I’ve ever seen be- 
fore or since. I assumed at once that my career as 
a writer was made, and I sat down and batted out 
short shorts by the hundreds (well, dozens, any- 
way) and bought $10 worth of postage and waited 
for the blue checks to start smothering me. 

But it wasn't long before I was buried under 
returned MSS. 

I. sold my second piece of fiction in 1937 — a. mys- 
tery novel that got by because it had a more potent 
conglomeration of mechanically grewsome murders 
that anybody had at that time thought up. 

J. tried to be pessimistic about this sale, remem- 



bering the two lean years. But a month later an- 
other short short won a contest and brought me $50. 
They couldn’t hold me then. That fall another 
novel hit pay-dirt, and I was positively unbearable. 

About that time, too, I sold an article to OUR 
ARMY proving that cities and civilians would never 
be bombed. The only satisfaction I have is that 
gas hasn’t been dropped on cities — yet. 

I was going strong in 1939, and by a little hasty 
multiplication I could see myself retiring in 1940 
to write, but Just then the old Minneapolis Journal, 
for which I worked, folded up, and my little routine 
was blasted. In another year I was beginning to 
go again. I sent another novel to the Toronto 
Star, and the editor wired for a synopsis, which usu- 
ally was the prelude to a sale. Next day Canada 
declared war, and soon my story came back. . 

About this time I had two novels in to a big book 
publisher, and presently my agent sent on a letter 
from the president, saying that he was leaving Sat- 
urday for Europe, and noting that he hadn’t decided 
on these two books, and so he was returning them. 

A few months later another novel came back from 
a Canadian book publisher. He said he had expected . 
to use it, but the government had just restricted 
the use of paper, and so — 

Well, it Just goes to show you. 

I think I got more all-around kick out of “City of 
Glass” than from anything I ever wrote. This busi- 
ness of reading the readers' letters intrigues me. 
One’s name gets in print so much, sometimes good, 
sometimes bad, but it’s there. And it's the only 
field I know where the writer can find out what the 
readers really think about him. 

“Iron Men" evolved more or less naturally. There 
were the City of Glass and a set of characters to 
start with ; then there was a little sentence in a 
book somewhere about a dense star that, if It were 
big enough, would have so much, mass and such a 
high critical velocity that light could not escape it. 
And then was when I was entering the machinist 
business, what with the war and all, and gee, there 
you have men of iron — all kinds of iron — and metals 
— and vanadium fingernails. Just mix and stir. 

And just to show you how honest people can be, 
even In war-time, I sent the final draft of “Iron 
Men” by air express, trying to get it to New York 
so Sgt. Saturn could peruse It over the week-end. 
And here the other day I get a check for 84 cents 
from Railway Express as a refund. By which I 
deduce that the plane to New York was full up 
with priorities. Anyway, I got my 84 cents, and I’d 
never even have known the difference. They say 
there’s nobody funnier than people. 

A young fan of mine nailed me the other day and 
asked, “What is it in City, of Glass you were scared 
somebody would pick a flaw in?” 

And 1,^ thankful that somebody cared enough to 
ask, answered with a very superior smile, “The 
theory of Infinitely accelerating velocity. You- know, 
the farther you get from earth the more your power 
accelerates your speed and the farther you get from 
earth and the more — etc.” 

I was so glad that at last I wa3 to have a chance 
to argue with somebody about that. I fondly im- 
agined it was my own idea, and I wanted to see 
if it would hold up. And so In about five minutes I 
was right in the big middle of a hot argument. 

No, I wasn’t trying to prove my theory was right. 
My young fan was proving that, I was trying to 
prove that it could be wrong! If there’s anybody 
funnier than people, it must be writers. 


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